


Desolation

by Mango_Marbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:34:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 69,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_Marbles/pseuds/Mango_Marbles
Summary: Dean's focused on his own survival for so long, he's forgotten how to take care of someone else. An End!verse AU.





	1. End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
> 
> This story takes place in the End!verse as if past Dean had never been sent to that future and the future Dean had never confronted Lucifer and died from it.

The end of the world is not explosive, nor is it quick. (Sam used to quote the one line, that the world ends with a whimper instead of a bang, but Dean tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about Sam at all because Sam's gone, even if he's left his body behind.) It's a slow drain of life and resources until, one day, neither will remain.

Entire cities have burned to the ground, leaving smoldering piles of ashes and stripped foundations as the only signs that they existed in the first place. Other cities are overrun by Croats mindlessly trying to infect the humans who still cling onto life in the wreckage of what was once their world.

Dean takes in a lungful of acrid air, used to the burn that sets into his throat. He kicks aside a charred bone with the steel-toed boots he stole off some Croat's body nearly a year ago. They've served him better than his old boots, and now isn't the time to be picky. Functionality rules over stylistic preferences.

With a sigh, he heads into the remains of the city, already knowing that he won't find much worthwhile to take back with him. Hell, he'll be lucky to find _anything_ worthwhile to take back with him.

Cas follows alongside him, directing him, but he doesn't like this. The entire area has been scorched and no signs of life have been left behind. Not even animals roam here.

"You're sure this is the place?" Dean asks.

"Yes, I feel it," Cas says. "Ever since my connection to Heaven started returning, I've felt drawn here. Like there's something important."

"Yeah, about that. How the hell did you get reconnected to Heaven in the first place? I thought the angels ditched us."

"They did, but maybe they came back. Maybe they didn't want to let Lucifer roam free here." Cas steps around what once might have been someone's shed. "After all, what would stop him from following them once he got bored here?"

"But I never agreed to be Michael's vessel," Dean says. "I thought that was, like, half the deal for them to save us."

"I wish I had more answers for you, Dean, but I'm not fully connected to Heaven yet. Restoration takes time."

Cas is a far cry from the almighty Angel of the Lord that Dean used to know him as (though he's stopped taking drugs from the infirmary, and he's becoming more like his old self each day). He wears too many layers, all of which are mismatched. He doesn't shave, so his scruff is free to grow into an unkempt beard.

Dean used to want to beat some sense into him, especially once he started stealing from their meds for the sole sake of getting high. Dean wanted to yell at him until he understood that they all needed him to have a clear head. That every man counted now that they had reached The End of Days.

Cas might still have his disheveled look, but he has life in his eyes again.

_Dean stumbles through the dirt paths of the survivor's village he's helped create, wishing for a cup of hot coffee. He took so much for granted, and he never even realized it until too late._

_Especially…_

_Dean shakes his head. There are some paths that he refuses to let his mind wander down. When survival is his primary goal, he can't let himself dredge up upsetting memories. He doesn't need to mull over the things he could have done differently._

_The truth is that what he did is done, and there's no changing that. He has to live with the consequences of his actions, even if he was only doing what he thought was best._

_When someone grips his sleeve and pulls to turn him around, his first instinct is to fight. Eliminate the threat, then move on. It's a reaction so ingrained that he's mid-swing by the time he realizes it's Cas standing there._

" _Dean," Cas says, his eyes wide and panicked._

_Dean's first thought is that Cas has taken too much of something he's not supposed to take any of. He has to be high out of his mind because he hasn't shown so much emotion at one time in a long time. He's frantic and losing it more than usual, nothing more._

" _Dean," Cas says against, stressing the single syllable of his name like it's something important. "I feel it."_

_Dean rolls his eyes. "Feel what?"_

" _I feel Heaven. My connection to it is returning." Cas says it like he can't believe it himself._

_Dean removes Cas' hand from his sleeve and starts leading him back to his cabin. "You need to lie down, Cas."_

_Cas pulls away from him. "I'm not on anything right now, Dean," he says. "I woke up this morning and I could feel it returning."_

_Dean takes a deep breath. Cas used to be someone he trusted, even if he admitted to helping deceive both Sam and Dean in order to start the Apocalypse. Dean hated him for a long time, but he never stopped trying to make up for his wrongdoings. After all, like Dean, he only thought he was doing the right thing._

" _Alright. C'mon, you can tell me about it while I eat breakfast."_

A week after Cas' connection started returning, and they ended up in this place.

Their ride and a few tag-a-longs from the village are parked on the outskirts of the city. Dean has a flare gun with him. It's not a signal for them to come help; it's a signal for the others to abandon him and Cas in order to save themselves in the instance that all hell breaks loose.

He's never had to use the flares, but they can't be too careful these days.

* * *

The longer they walk without finding anything, the more Dean wonders if he was wrong to trust that Cas is returning to his old self. Maybe Cas was having some bad side effects from whatever he took and this is all a wild goose chase.

"It's close," Cas says. "There's something here, Dean. I just… I can't tell what it is."

Dean bites his tongue, swallows any bitter retorts that try to escape his mouth, and nods. He'll humor Cas for now. Once it turns out that it's all nothing, he'll have a reasonable excuse for putting Cas on the sidelines for awhile.

Cas stops frequently and looks around, trying to pinpoint something unknown to Dean.

Dean's ready to call it all off and head back to the others and their truck. It's fall, but it's one of the hotter days of the season. He's exhausted and sweating, wanting nothing more than to be in his cabin and taking a nap or finishing off whatever he has left in his dwindling liquor stash. He's starving, and there's a lot of meals that he hasn't had in so long, he wouldn't hesitate to kill if it meant he could have them once more.

Cas stands in front of an abandoned home for several minutes before he nods. "In here," he says.

Dean follows behind Cas. There's no way the thing he's looking for is alive. The inside of the home is coated in a thick layer of dust that, as far as Dean sees, hasn't been disturbed in the slightest. It's a strange sight of a forgotten past. There's a TV in the corner, positioned to be visible by all occupants of the couch. There are some toys laying on the ground, signs that there were children living here once before the Apocalypse hit them full force.

Thinking about the Apocalypse and the lives it destroyed brings a sudden rush of anger with it, but there's an undertone of guilt. It wasn't all… He's at fault, too.

" _Is it true? Did I break the first seal?" Dean asks. He feels like he's been hit by a truck, and he's not going to be released from the hospital any time soon, but the question is tearing him apart more than Alastair did._

_Cas confirms that he did, and Dean wishes that Alastair killed him. He was raised to believe that he was a hero, but now he learns that he was the beginning of the end of the world._

_For the first time, but certainly not the last, Dean thinks that it would have been better if he hadn't brought Sam back. He knew it was selfish when he made the deal, and the world keeps throwing shit at him and mocking him for his decision. The dead should stay dead. He knows that. He used to repeat it after his dad sold his soul for his life._

_He just can't seem to take his own advice._

He follows Cas up to the second floor of the house, where there are visual disturbances that someone—or something—has been in the house recently. The dust is not settled in a thick blanket, and the floor is spotted with scorch marks and bloodstains. He steps over glass shards and tipped over furniture.

How can something get to the second floor of the house without touching the first floor? He checks the windows, but finds that they're secured and the locks won't budge. They aren't broken enough to allow anything to slip into the house, just covered in thin cracks instead. He considers the possibility that it's a split-level house, but the stairs to the upper level aren't separated from the lower level.

It's been awhile since he's hunted something that wasn't a Croat, but he thinks that the disturbances could be from a vengeful spirit. Although, it's still odd for the activity to be confined to one floor. That's the kind of information he'd usually get from…

No one. He's on his own and he can trust only himself (and occasionally Cas).

Cas interrupts his thoughts by saying, "That can't be, it's impossible."

He's standing in a doorway and looking into a room. Dean comes over to join him and see what could possibly be so shocking.

He glances in, and he's frozen to the spot, his mouth hanging open. His blood turns to ice in his veins and his body doesn't seem to know the proper reaction, so it's shut down instead.

There's a man in the room on the bed, lying prone. He looks worse for wear and has visible injuries, some fresh and some old. His clothes are torn and dirty, bloody in some places. But it's not the physical state of the man that shocks Dean.

It's the fact that the body lying on that bed used to belong to Sam.


	2. A Man I Used to Know

Dean's rooted to the spot, but Cas closes the distance to… the man lying on the bed with a few quick strides.

"That's not really… It's Lucifer, right?" Dean asks. "It has to be. That can't be…"

Cas places one hand on Sam's chest and closes his eyes. Dean takes it as his cue to shut the fuck up for a minute, and he wishes that his thoughts took that cue, too, because they race through his mind to the point that he doesn't know which possibility scares him more: that it _is…_ or that it _isn't…_ him.

Dean waits as patiently as he can, only closing the distance and joining Cas by… the body when Cas' eyes open wide in a panic and he jerks his hand back like a kid who touched a hot burner.

Dean grabs Cas' wrist and looks for any sign of injury on his palm, but he finds nothing.

"Cas?" Dean asks. He didn't realize how much he wanted it to be… until that moment. "It's Lucifer, isn't it? What the hell is he doing here? Why is he unconscious?"

Cas doesn't answer, but Dean sees unshed tears building up in his eyes, and it's starting to freak him out. Anytime one of the other survivors back at the village starts crying, he conveniently finds a way to push them off to someone else.

He grips Cas' shoulder and shakes him. "You're scaring me here, Cas. What's going on?"

"I can't believe it," Cas says.

"Believe what?"

"It's Sam," Cas says.

Dean looks at the body closer this time, and he looks young, but different.

"That's impossible," Dean says. "He's been dead for years. This is just a trick. It has to be."

"He wasn't dead for years, Dean. He's been possessed."

"Yeah, well, it was easier to deal with when I told myself that he was dead. But you and I both know that Lucifer wouldn't just up and leave."

"I don't know how or why, but there are no angels in this body, Dean," Cas says. "Only Sam's soul."

Those words are enough to reawaken a long-forgotten feeling in Dean. The urge to protect someone else, and not solely because it's the right thing to do or because it's what's expected of him now that the world is on its last legs and the people back at the village they created rely on him.

Dean looks at… _Sam_. He really looks at him for the first time since entering the room.

"What happened?" he asks. "He looks like shit."

_Sam_ (there's a disconnect that wants to tell him that it's impossible, that it isn't Sam on the bed regardless of what Cas says) has burn scars on the right side of his face. When Dean looks at his hands, he sees that the right one is scarred as well, but the left side of his body looks, from the small amount of skin showing, untouched by whatever flames ate away at the right side. They are new burns, or at least burns made in the last five years, but the way they're scarred makes Dean think that they should be older than that.

He has a few other injuries, cuts and the like, but the ones that are still bleeding do so sluggishly. From what he can tell, there are no life-threatening injuries. Though, he wonders how much damage has been sustained from the old injuries. The burns in particular.

"I don't have the answers to that," Cas says.

"Can't you look into his mind or something? Search his memories for what happened?"

"I'm not strong enough for that yet."

"What _are_ you strong enough for?"

"Searching the memories of anyone else," Cas says. "Dean, he was possessed by _Lucifer_ for years. I can't imagine the toll that would take on a soul. I can't imagine what those memories might hold."

"You led me here. What are we supposed to do now?"

"We should take Sam back to the village. He might be willing to provide the answers on his own in time."

Their ride back is miles away, and he knows that they won't be able to carry Sam all the way there. Just like when he was entering the city and thinking that there wouldn't be anything worth finding, he wonders if it would be better to leave without Sam.

He broke the world by letting Lucifer in, and Dean can't shake the part of him that thinks Sam deserves to be punished for landing them all in this shit-hole. They both participated in starting the Apocalypse, but he didn't have to say 'yes'.

_Why_ did he say 'yes'?

His desire for answers, along with that spark of renewed life inside him (an age-old instinct that hasn't kicked in for years, the one he tries to ignore as being shock and nothing else), hatches a plan.

"Well, this city had a hospital once, didn't it?" Dean asks. "I swear I saw its sign when we were walking. There might be something there we can use to lug him out of here."

"Do you want me to—"

"No," Dean says. "I'll go. You stay here."

Cas nods, and while he doesn't look happy with the arrangement, he doesn't argue. So, Dean takes his leave before Cas changes his mind and decides to protest.

He thinks the fresh air (or as fresh as air can get these days) will clear his head, but his mind is trying to accept something it wrote off as impossible years ago.

He'd put Sam to rest (mentally, if not physically) soon after Cas broke the news to him. Apparently, it was a pretty hot topic on Angel Radio.

" _Dean, we need to talk."_

_Cas appears in his motel room in the middle of the night, shaking him awake and taking the risk that he might find himself on the receiving end of a knife wound that can't kill him anyway._

" _Cas, can't it wait until morning? I'm exhausted."_

" _It can't."_

_Dean groans, but sits up in bed and fumbles to turn the lamp on the nightstand on. It flickers and it's dim, but he's stayed in worse motels and at least it works._

" _What?" Dean asks. "What is so important that you have to barge in here in the middle of the night?"_

_He's been hunting, and having to do all the work on his own has proven both frustrating and tiring. He's hunted alone before, but he grew so used to Sam taking on large chunks of the work that being solo again is taking some adjusting, even months later._

" _It's Sam."_

_If Dean wasn't awake before, he is now. He hops out of bed and starts pulling on clothes, not caring about how disheveled he looks. He's been wavering for months about calling Sam and maybe meeting up just for a day or two. Just to check on him and make sure he's okay since he hasn't been in contact after Dean said they needed to pick a hemisphere and stay away from each other._

" _Where is he?" Dean asks. "What happened?"_

_Cas' hands on his shoulders stop him, but the bone-deep sadness in Cas' eyes is just as chilling. "Dean, Sam said 'yes'."_

_Deans stops packing his things and getting ready for a marathon drive to his brother. "What?"_

" _Sam let Lucifer in. He's not Sam anymore."_

_Dean falls back to sit on the motel bed, making it creak in protest at the sudden weight. Sam would never… would he? How could…?_

_The only thoughts surfacing in his mind are half-finished questions of disbelief. This is the very thing he was trying to prevent by keeping Sam away. What happened?_

" _Do you… Do you know why?" Dean asks._

_Cas shakes his head. "No, but every angel felt the pulse created when an archangel possesses their true vessel, and it's been the only talk among angels since."_

" _What do they say?"_

" _They celebrate. This is what they've been working towards, Dean. It's the end of Earth."_

_Dean sits up straight once he hears that. "They're_ celebrating _?"_

" _Don't you remember talking to Zachariah the night that Sam freed Lucifer?" Cas asks. "We kept you away so that you couldn't stop Sam, or that was the original plan. You know that angels wanted the Apocalypse, why wouldn't they be celebrating?"_

" _I thought they got what they wanted when Lucifer rose."_

" _They did. Sam accepting his role as Lucifer's vessel is the second thing they wanted, and the third is_ you _accepting your role as Michael's vessel."_

" _That's not happening," Dean says. "I'm not saying 'yes' to Michael so that he can use my body to kill my brother when he kills his brother."_

" _Dean, the angels aren't going to leave you alone when they're so close to getting what they want."_

" _Is it what you want, too?" Dean asks. He needs to know how alone he is in this world that's on its last legs. If Cas is on the angel's side and Sam isn't Sam anymore, then he has no one left._

_He should go to Bobby's. See if they can figure something out, but he's too numb to do as much as move off his bed._

" _It's what I used to want," Cas says, speaking slowly like he's hand-picking his words and only wants the ones fit for harvesting. "But, like Anna, I started questioning."_

" _So, what do you want?"_

" _Something different," Cas says. "I don't think it's fair for the humans to die by the millions for the angels' form of Paradise."_

_Dean nods. So, he has Cas. That's good—it's great—but when he can't have Sam at his side is when he wants him there the most._

" _Do you need me to stay?" Cas asks._

_Dean shakes his head. "I'd like to be alone for now."_

_Cas is gone as quickly as he arrived._

_When he's alone, no one will see his breakdown. No one will ask him the questions he can't answer, and he won't be able to respond in kind with questions they can't answer._

_He's left alone to think over every decision that he's made before and after him and Sam went their separate ways. He tries to remember what the last thing he said to Sam is, and then he wonders what he could've said differently. What he could've done differently. If he could've kept Sam from saying 'yes'._

_Then, his hands form into tight fists that leave his knuckles white. How can Sam do this to him? How can Sam do this to the world? And why?_

_Why? Why? Why?_

* * *

The hospital is a matter of blocks away and the memory keeps Dean from realizing that he's walked that far until he's at the hospital's main entrance. Odd that there are no Croats in the city that he's seen, but empty cities like this are becoming common. With Lucifer being separated from his true vessel, maybe there is an end to this mess in sight.

The automatic doors no longer work, but Dean is fine using the old-fashioned push-and-pull door. The place isn't in top condition anymore, but it's held up better than some of the other places he's seen. He remembers a time when hospitals had a too-clean chemical smell to them, but that time passed long ago. If he's lucky, not all the supplies have been picked over and he can restock some of the medical equipment back at the village while he's there. The voice in the back of his mind chimes in that… _he_ looked in need of a little patching up, too.

But first he needs to find something to get… _him_ back to the cars they brought along and the village later. A wheelchair. A gurney (his top choice). Hell, he'll settle for a table with wheels.

And, after five years without him, he's having a hard time even getting himself to refer to the man he's doing this for as… Sam. Sam is supposed to be gone for good. He was never supposed to resurface, especially not angel free.

He entertains the thought that Cas might be wrong. He isn't at full power, after all. His grace is slowly returning, and that has to mean there's the possibility that he made a mistake in declaring Sam's body free of angels. Yet, he can't squash the flicker of hope. His anger at Sam faded to sadness and grief a long time ago, though it returned anytime he lost one of his villagers to a Croat or an injury or illness that was treatable years ago.

Right next to the entrance, Dean spots a herd of wheelchairs tucked away in an alcove. He picks out a handful that will never work, one even missing a wheel. He doesn't know what happened in this town, but he's hoping that whatever drove out the life left the supplies behind. Supplies that he can use.

The floors of the halls are covered in dust and debris, sections of the ceiling are missing in chunks. Some of the doors hang off their hinges, and all Dean wonders is where the hell a gurney would be kept. He remembers watching Dr. Sexy years ago, back when TVs were still operational and broadcasting mind-numbing programming. In the show, gurneys were just left in hallways all the time. Always conveniently placed for the cast to use.

Convenience holds no place in reality, he knows. If it did, then he wouldn't be dealing with… _his_ return _now_. There wouldn't be skeletons crawling out of his closet and demanding his attention. Demanding the focus that he needs to keep the people relying on him back at the village alive and well. Safe.

The part of him that's still angry at… _Sam_ starts to resent him. Why does he have to show up out of the blue and dump all this on him? He already ruined the world, why does he have to swoop in and ruin the little world that Dean's been working so hard to rebuild?

But Dean does what he's always done and puts his own emotions to the side. There's an age-old instinct stirring inside him, the one that urges him to protect something more important than himself.

" _Watch out for Sammy."_

His father's words echo in his mind. They're a reminder and an accusation. They tell him what he needs to do now and what he's forgotten to do in the past.

He rummages through some drawers and cabinets, but vials of medicine are broken and emptied along with bags of fluids and blood once meant to be transfused. He swipes some gauze, bandages, and medical tape. He takes what he thinks might still prove useful, but it doesn't amount to much.

He thinks back to his walk into the city with Cas. Some of the houses, like the one Cas is sitting in at the moment, appear almost untouched by events that leveled other sections of the city to ashes. It might be worth snooping around in them.

He makes his way up the stairs to the second floor of the hospital, all too aware that he will never make it to the top as half of the building seems to have toppled over, taking equipment that he could have put to good use with it.

He uses all his luck that day, finding a dirty, old gurney tucked away back on the first floor, near the ambulance dock and emergency room. He knows he should have checked there first, but he had to see if there was anything else worth taking. While he only found a small amount of useful items, he figures that it's better than nothing.

He hops up on the gurney, testing that it can hold his weight. No point in dragging it all over if it's just going to break apart when they need it.

While it creaks under his weight, it holds him. That's really the most he can ask for.

He starts on his way back, pushing the gurney in front of him with the little treasure of supplies he found. When he's doing something, it's easy to push aside his own thoughts and the problems he has to deal with.

But he's all too aware that there's a mess of feelings that he'll have to deal with sooner rather than later.

Sam was never supposed to come back, but he has. Dean has to learn to accept that reality, and as much as he considers leaving Sam behind, he knows that he can't.

No matter how many mistakes Sam made. No matter how angry Dean is at him or how much he wants to hate him at times. Some truths don't change.

Like the truth that, if Cas is to be believed, the man lying in the bed in that house blocks away is his little brother, Sam. The little brother that Dean's life once revolved around.

What is he supposed to do now?

* * *

It doesn't take him long to get back to the house, even if he's not entirely sure that he's entered the right one. The sun is getting higher in the sky, and although it might be autumn, it's still a warm day and he feels sweat starting to form at his hairline.

"Cas!" Dean yells once he opens the front door. "You're gonna have to give me a hand getting this thing up there!"

Cas comes down the stairs, his expression falling back into the stoic mask he used to always wear as a full-fledged Angel of the Lord. For a while, mostly when he was high on meds he shouldn't take, he looked relaxed. He looked happy.

Dean isn't sure if this regression of Cas' is a good sign or a bad one.

"He wake up?" Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. "No. He hasn't even moved in the slightest."

"And you're absolutely sure that it's…"

"I am," Cas says. "I know what the grace of an angel feels like, especially one as powerful as Lucifer, and I know what the soul of a human feels like. The only entity in that body is Sam's soul."

"That doesn't make any damn sense."

They haul the gurney up the steps and shift Sam onto it from the bed, strapping him in so he'll be as secure as he can be while they transport him back to the vehicles waiting outside of the city, and then back to the survivors' village.

"If the angels are returning, perhaps we were overdue for a miracle," Cas says.

"This isn't the kind of miracle that I would have had in mind."

"You can pretend all you want, Dean, but I've watched you over the years. No matter how much you try to hide it, you could never eliminate your love for your brother."

"I hoped he was somewhere better. That Lucifer at least had the courtesy to give Sam peace since he agreed to be a vessel," Dean says.

"I think that it's a good thing that he's back," Cas says. "You've changed a lot, Dean. Maybe it's time for you to return to your roots. Maybe it's time for all of us to return to our roots."

Dean looks at Sam. He looks at his peaceful face and his pale skin that's marred by horribly prominent burn scars.

He's not sure he remembers how to be the man he once was. His roots have been burned away, and he's not sure it's possible to find them again.


	3. Whiskey, Waiting, Wishing

"Oh, shit. Is that guy alive?"

It's Alan who asks. An able-bodied man who listens well enough to stay off Dean's bad side, but his tendency to say what's on his mind without thinking it over irritates Dean all too frequently. Unlike some of the other villagers, Alan didn't have any hobbies that left him with valuable skills once the Apocalypse hit. But he can drive and he learned how to shoot a gun, and that's all Dean needs from him.

"No, I just decided it'd be fun to drag a corpse around with us," Dean says.

"He's not infected, is he?" Alan again.

"You really think I'd bring a Croat back and drag him into the village?"

The truth is that Dean never considered the possibility that Sam could be infected. But then he remembers Sam having a vision that led them straight into River Grove as it was filling with Croats before that became their common name. He remembers a nurse locking herself in a room with Sam to infect him.

_Sam looks so young sitting on the examination table. His eyes are red and he can't seem to stop the flow of tears pouring down his face._

_Dean's gun is heavy in his hands, two bullets waiting. If Sam goes, he follows. No matter how much Sam begs him to reconsider. No matter how much Sam begs him to continue on and finish their hunt for the demon. No matter how much Sam begs for the gun to off himself and let Dean live his own life._

_Because Sam doesn't understand that Dean's life isn't worth living without his brother._

He wonders where along the line that changed, because he's made it years without Sam as a presence in his life.

For now, he's certain that Sam isn't a Croat. He was infected in the past, and nothing happened.

He has immunity from the very infection that ravaged the world. The very infection that continues to ravage the world.

"We'll quarantine him once we get back, if it makes you feel better."

Alan nods along with the others who've been staring (Beth and Trevor, who make up the rest of today's team), but apparently thought better of questioning Dean.

Cas helps him get Sam into the back of one of the trucks. Maybe they hadn't questioned him then, but he will have a lot to answer for in the coming days. Hell, the coming weeks.

The only mercy is that very few of the villagers know that it was _Sam_ who housed Lucifer or even what he looks like: Cas, Chuck, and himself. It's a number that's dwindled since the kick-off of the Apocalypse, and he wonders what Bobby would say if he could have been there when he shows up with Sam.

"Do you think we should take the gurney back?" Cas asks.

"I don't know," Dean says. "Do you think we'll need it?"

"It might make things easier if…"

"If what?"

Cas doesn't answer. He won't even look at Dean.

"If what, Cas?" he asks again.

"If Sam doesn't wake up."

The words hit Dean with a force that he doesn't expect. Something like that's always a possibility, but he hasn't let himself really think about it. He's spent his brainpower on trying to get a handle on the anger and frustration that seeing Sam renewed and trying to figure out how he's supposed to deal with Sam appearing out of fucking nowhere injured and scarred and angel-free. He hasn't considered that he won't have to deal with any of that. He hasn't considered that Sam might just permanently fade from his life a second time.

The mess of feelings that come with those thoughts are too much for him to sort through at the moment.

"Is there room for it in the other truck?" he asks.

"We can probably make something work," Beth says.

"Then, make it work."

Dean helps, and it takes a lot of fussing for them to get everything in order, but they manage to load up the vehicles and start heading back to town.

In another lifetime, Dean would have been unable to leave Sam's side, especially an injured and unconscious Sam. Times change, though, and Dean doesn't want to be near him. So, he shoves Cas into the truck to ride with Alan and Sam while he tags along with Beth and Trevor.

He doesn't want to deal with making sure Sam is still breathing or trying to stop himself from punching the dumbass when he's already in rough shape.

Instead, he's happy to sit in the bed of a pickup truck next to an old gurney, listening to the shitty remnants of the world around him as they start the bumpy trip back to Camp Chitaqua.

* * *

Chuck is the first to greet them at the gate of the village, and he buzzes about with his clipboard as he tries to take inventory of what they've scavenged during their trip, which Dean hates to say isn't much at all.

If he thought Chuck was neurotic before, that's only increased since the world started dying. He keeps careful track of all their resources (which Dean can't deny has proved invaluable), going over the numbers again and again until he recites them in his sleep. At least, Dean imagines he does.

Dean and Cas grab the gurney and Chuck follows them around to the second truck.

"What's that thing for?" he asks. "Why a gurney? Why not, I don't know, food or something that we could actually use?"

"We are actually using it," Dean says.

He opens the door of the truck, and he hears Chuck's clipboard fall to the ground.

"Wha-what? Dean, you didn't… That's not… You brought _Lucifer_ back to the village? What's wrong with you?" he asks, leaning in close and whispering in Dean's ear so the others don't hear him.

"It's not Lucifer," Dean says.

Cas helps him get Sam out of the truck and onto the gurney. He doesn't know if being manhandled hurts Sam, but even if it does, Sam remains silent and in the same deep level of unconsciousness he's been in since they found him.

"Well, it can't be—"

"It is," Dean says. "Well, if you believe Cas and his newly returning angel juice."

They roll the gurney towards the cabin that's the farthest away from the rest of the village, their quarantine cabin. It was used more in the early days, before Dean learned the early signs of someone turning into a Croat. Now, it's rarely used.

Dean knows that Sam's not a Croat. He's immune to the virus, possibly the only person alive who is. The problem is that only him, Cas, and Chuck know that, and he can't explain it to the rest of the village without having to explain more than he'd like to.

Chuck tags along behind them. "This is insane, Dean. What are we supposed to do with him?"

What they do with him is Dean's decision, part of being a leader in this shit-hole world. He never wanted to be the leader—he's spent most of his life following orders, not giving them—but he can't back down from the role now. Too many people depend on his guidance, because unlike them, he's been raised to survive.

" _Will you stop it already?"_

" _I'm not doin' anything."_

_Dean groans and turns to face Sam, the kid's barely even half his size. "Stop following me."_

" _I'm playing follow the leader," Sam says._

_Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, I'm not playing. So, just stop it already."_

_He keeps walking through the Salvage Yard, all too aware of Sam's little footsteps padding along behind him. He stops abruptly, and Sam bumps into him before falling down. He turns with biting words forming on his lips. Words to tell Sam to knock it off and if he thinks he's being cute, he's not._

_But Sam looks up at him with eyes wide and innocent in a way only a child's can be. And he grins, showing off his missing front teeth and sticking the tip of his tongue through the gap they've left behind._

_All the words he's about to say die in his throat. He sighs, helps Sam to his feet, and lets him continue following him around without saying anything. Lets him pretend that he's leading him somewhere._

* * *

Once in the quarantine cabin, they transfer Sam from the gurney to one of the beds. It's one of the only pieces of furniture in the place, but it's not meant for long-term stays. Croats take only hours to turn, and Dean knows the symptoms well enough that he can spot one almost immediately after infection.

It's a skill he wishes he never had to acquire.

"Now what?" Chuck asks, still standing around off to the side. "You both know that he's not infected. It's impossible."

"Yeah, well, only we know that. Trying to explain it to the others means having to explain a lot more than I'd like. It's easier to hole him up here for a few days and prove that he's not a Croat," Dean says.

"And then what?" Chuck asks. "I mean, I don't think anyone here outside of us knows who he is and what he's done, but what if?"

"I don't know," Dean says. "This was… He was never supposed to come back."

Dean runs a hand through his own hair and then down his face. He used to be so sure about his decisions because this new world is about survival. Sam's return shakes that faith he had in himself. Less than a day, and he already questions himself more than he has in years.

"Well, what the hell happened to him?" Chuck asks. "He looks terrible."

"You're the prophet, you tell me," Dean says, wishing for the first time that Chuck still unintentionally intruded on their lives.

"We found him in this condition. If I had to guess, I'd say his injuries are the remnants of Lucifer being expelled from his body," Cas says.

"You think he'll wake up?" Dean asks.

If he doesn't, then there wasn't any point in dragging him all the way back to the village. No point in trying to figure out where they're supposed to go from here. What they're supposed to do.

"I can't tell," Cas says. "It will take time for me to regain my power to the point of being able to control it that well."

"Then, take a seat and watch him," Dean says.

"What are you going to do?" Cas asks.

Dean brushes past both of them. "I'm gonna get some fresh air."

* * *

Cas shows up later, but Dean's not hiding. Not really. He's sitting in his cabin, trying to drag out the last of a bottle of whiskey he was lucky enough to find on one of their supply runs. Alcohol, once an escape, is now a luxury that he has to save for special occasions. The tough days that he never wants to remember again.

Days like finding his brother who destroyed the world.

But no matter how much he drinks, Sam will still be in that cabin. He'll still be at the village.

"I thought I told you to stay with him," Dean says.

"I asked Chuck to sit with him for a bit. I think we need to talk."

Cas slips into the only other chair at the table.

"I don't want to talk. I want to drink." Dean flips his bottle so that it's upside down, but not a single drop spills out. "But I guess I'm not allowed even that."

"I didn't think you'd want to leave Sam's side after finding him again."

"Things have changed," Dean says. "I don't know who he is anymore. I only know the things he's done, and they make me believe that he isn't the same person."

"You know the results of what he's done, but none of us know why he said 'yes' to Lucifer."

"It doesn't matter why, just that he did. He ruined the world. He has no right just waltzing back here like nothing's happened."

"He didn't. We found him, Dean."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Cas says. "Sam's done a lot, I get it. There were times that I hated him after I lost my grace. But I think that there's more to the story than we know, because we only know one side of it. Ours."

"Get out."

"Dean, I'm just trying to—"

Dean stands up and throws the empty whiskey bottle against the wall, letting the rain of glass sprinkle the floor. "I said get out!"

Cas follows Dean's lead and stands up. "You're drunk, and you can get as angry as you want, but this isn't something you can hide from forever. That is _Sam_ in the quarantine cabin. That's the little brother you went to Hell for. If you aren't going to be there for him, then I will be."

Dean doesn't say anything, just watches Cas leave and slam the door behind him. It's a drastic change from the Cas of two weeks ago, when he was peaceful and high and happy.

Now, he's angry and vengeful and trying to be righteous again.

Dean slumps back down into his chair. The shards of glass on the floor reflect the limited lighting in a mocking reminder of his anger. Cas' words echo through his mind, and the worst part is that they were all true.

There's someone injured and unconscious in a cabin that he's supposed to protect. Someone he's promised his father to protect. But he wants to spend his time finding more booze and binge drinking until he can't remember his own name instead of following through on that promise.

And Cas is right, they _don't_ know what led up to the end of the world other than what they experienced and witnessed for themselves. He doesn't have any answers from Sam.

There were so many times after they separated that he considered calling Sam just to check-in on him.

Would it have made a difference?

* * *

He can't sleep. No matter how many times he lies down and closes his eyes, he's always assaulted with memories. Memories of him and Sam before things were so complicated between them. Before they broke the world.

He tosses his blankets off and grabs his jacket, pulling it on as he slips his feet into his boots and heads outside. The days might be a little warm, but the nights have the chill of the coming winter creeping in. He considers seeking out one or another of the women living in the village, but waking up in one woman's cabin always leaves another woman upset.

That's the problem with a life settled in one place. The people he interacts with are people he's stuck living with for the foreseeable future. He can't just have his fun and move on, leaving the heartbroken women behind, physically and mentally.

He takes a turn and heads to the quarantine cabin. Soft light spills from its windows, a flickering light indicative of lit candles. He knocks twice and enters without waiting for an invitation.

The cabin only has a handful of rooms, and he walks into the bedroom after taking only a few steps.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" Cas asks. He's settled in a wooden chair, slouched to the point that he looks like he's trying to sit on the floor instead.

Dean sees the shadows under his eyes and knows that, despite the slow return of his grace, Cas is still more mortal than angel, and he's exhausted himself watching over Sam.

There's a touch of something that Dean thinks might be guilt rising in his stomach. This is… his responsibility. His all-but-forgotten duty to hold bedside vigil for a hurting Sam.

And he can't even bring himself to say Sam's name out loud anymore.

Cas might think he needs to find his roots again, but he knows exactly where they are. The problem is that they're wilting away.

"I couldn't sleep," Dean says.

"You thought coming here might help?"

"I don't know, but I shouldn't have lost it like I did earlier," Dean says. "I'm sorry."

"It's a lot to take in," Cas says.

"Yeah."

"I know that you're still angry about a lot of things. I know that you still resent Sam for a lot of what's happened. But don't you think you should at least give him a chance to explain?"

"And if he doesn't remember any of it? What if he can never be a functional human again, or if he never wakes up? How is he supposed to explain his actions then?"

Dean leans against the wall, keeping his distance from Sam and looking for the source of his continued unconsciousness. There's another flare of the emotions he felt earlier, when they first came across Sam. The disbelief. The hatred.

But there's also a desire to protect. To help.

He doesn't know which will win out. He doesn't know which he wants to win out. The negativity is easier to hold onto, but the positive feelings, the ones he remembers from ages ago, keep resurfacing just enough to keep it all in check.

"We just need to focus on one thing at a time," Cas says.

"When did you become the voice of reason?"

"When you stopped listening to your own voice of reason."

Dean doesn't respond, and Cas returns his full attention to Sam, as lifeless on the bed as he's been since they moved him there in the morning.

_It's been over a day, but Dean stays glued to his spot on the bare bed across from an identical bare bed in an abandoned home in an abandoned town. Both beds have occupants, but they're very different._

_One is alive. The other is dead._

" _You can't do this to me, Sammy," he says. "You can't leave me. Not like Dad."_

_Sam doesn't respond. Of course, he doesn't respond. There's no breath in his lungs. There's no heartbeat pumping blood through his veins. His skin's gone so pale that it's grey, and Dean remembers the light tan Sam had when he first picked him up from California a lifetime ago._

_He was so close, but when it mattered the most, he was too late._

_Now, he can't get the image of Sam's face contorting with sudden pain out of his head. Or the way he fell to his knees and would've been face-first in the mud if Dean wasn't holding him up._

_Bobby is there somewhere, but Dean has a hard time focusing on anything that isn't Sam, cold and still on a bed that's stained with the last of the blood he would ever bleed._

" _Please, Sammy. You can't leave me. Not like this," he says. "I'll take you back to college if you want. I'll let you choose whatever path you wanna take, just as long as you're alive to take it."_

"I think I'm still a bit buzzed," Dean says. "I should… I'll just…"

Dean doesn't finish any of his sentences. Instead, he turns and leaves the cabin behind, his brother and Cas inside it. He heads back to his own cabin and locks himself in it. Whatever problems the village has tomorrow morning, they can deal with it themselves. He needs sleep that he knows he won't be getting tonight.

For the first time, he feels like he doesn't belong in his own home.

* * *

A week passes. A week without a single hint that Sam's alive beyond the fact that he's breathing and has a pulse. They moved him from the quarantine cabin to the closest thing they have to an infirmary, an old building that was a clinic once. They're lucky enough to have a man, David, who was a paramedic and a woman, Annette, who was a nurse manning the infirmary. While they might not be doctors, Dean's a beggar and can't be a chooser.

He'll take what he can get.

The day after they found Sam, Dean was sent out with a small group to find supplies once it became clear that he isn't waking up anytime soon. He was asked to find fluids to keep Sam hydrated, at the very least.

He came back empty-handed (he's already scavenged every nearby city and he didn't want to spend too many days going farther and farther away in his search), wondering if that failure of his would be the reason that Sam never gets to wake up again.

Then, he told himself that he only went out to search in the first place because David asked him to, not because he was helping Sam.

But that week passes, and Sam is still breathing and he still has a pulse, or so Cas tells him.

Dean has been in the infirmary once since he came back from his failed search for supplies, and he only entered it then to let David and Annette know that they wouldn't be getting what they asked for.

They don't know that the man lying there used to be his brother. They don't understand Dean's distance or apathy towards him. They don't understand that his lack of caring over whether that man lives or dies is because a large piece of him thinks it would be easier on everyone if Sam never wakes up. If they can salt and burn him and say that it's all over now.

But he clings to life, somehow. Cas says that both David and Annette are baffled. No food. No fluids. Yet Sam persists.

Cas doesn't have an explanation either. He tells Dean that he tries to figure out what's going on each day as his grace grows stronger, but he doesn't have the answers.

Dean stands outside of the infirmary. One week, and he still doesn't know how he feels about Sam's return. For someone who used to be decisive and a leader, he's crumbling into indecision. His own cabin is full of broken things and evidence of fits of anger. He's even pulled out a small wooden box from its place tucked under his bed, but he left it on his table unopened and coated in dust. He can't bring himself to face those memories yet.

David steps out and finds him standing there, staring.

"You can go in if you want, but the patient's still unconscious," he says.

"I didn't plan on going in."

"You know, usually you check in on anyone in the infirmary at least once a day. See what's up. See if they're going to make it. If they're healing."

Dean shrugs.

"Dean, maybe it's not my place, but what's up with you lately? Why are you avoiding the infirmary this time?" David asks.

"You're right," Dean says. "It's not your place."

Dean walks away before David says anything else. They might not know who Sam is or what he's done, but Dean knows.

* * *

He spends his day wandering around the village. He checks on everyone and asks Chuck to list off what they've run out of and what they're going to run out of soon.

He knows they'll need to make another supply run in the near future, but he feels tethered to the village now. When he starts to get too far away, his heart sinks into his stomach and both organs fill with dread. He considers passing off leadership to someone else, let them go out and scavenge for supplies.

It's a slow day for him, not much for him to deal with. Not even small disputes for him to break up. It's one of the days that makes it almost feel like the world beyond their fence isn't ending. That it isn't ravaged and dying.

He hates it. He wishes, for the first time, that there would be a shitload of problems for him to handle. Other people's problems so he can continue to ignore his own.

His dad would be so disappointed in him. His whole life, he's been reminded to take care of Sammy. Watch out for him. Save him, if he can.

Now, when Sam needs him the most, he can't bring himself to be there.

* * *

It's another night of not sleeping and not drinking, though he tries to sleep and tries to find some alcohol. When it becomes clear that neither are happening, he gets up and drags himself to sit at his table.

He runs his hand over the smooth surface of the small wooden box he dug out, leaving trails in the blanket of dust, and takes a deep breath before he can bring himself to open it. Even in the limited light of his lantern, it's easy to see a brass charm attached to a leather cord at the top of the box's contents. It's a relic of his past and a memory that used to mean something.

He's about to touch it. To grab it. He remembers how its weight on his chest was once comforting, and he realizes how prominent the emptiness left behind is.

Quick, harsh knocks interrupt him. He flips the lid of the box closed and takes a few quick strides before ripping open his front door.

Cas stands on the other side, as disheveled as always and out of breath, poised to continue his assault on Dean's door.

Dean feels the adrenaline already slipping into his veins. Cas is never in that much of a panic that he's left wild-eyed and frantic. Even when facing Croats, he has an eerie calmness to him. "What? What's wrong, Cas?"

"Sam's awake."


	4. Wide Eyes

_The beeps from the heart monitor have Dean on the verge of going insane. John can tell him to be patient as many times as he likes, but that's one order Dean can't follow. Not this time._

_Not when it's Sam's heart being monitored by those steady staccato beeps. Not when they're saying 'he's alive' like there's an alternative._

_He hears nurses with their carts walk past the door to Sam's room, and every time his heart stops until they've well and truly passed by. What if it had been a doctor looking for them? What if they had come to say that they were mistaken in their assessment of Sam? That he isn't going to make it._

_His frayed nerves have everything, no matter how innocuous, labeled as being a threat or the messenger of bad news._

_Yet, when the nurse on duty does enter the room, she simply checks Sam's vitals, makes a note on the clipboard at the foot of his bed, and leaves to continue on with her route._

" _Dean, he'll be fine. You heard the doctors," John says. He sits in the plastic chair with his hands clasped like it's no big deal. Like his son didn't nearly die just hours ago._

" _Then, why hasn't he woken up yet?" Dean asks. "He doesn't look fine to me."_

" _He lost a lot of blood, Dean," John says. "He needs the rest. He'll be awake and back at it before you know it."_

_Sam's pale. He's a lot paler than he was earlier that day, before they went out on their hunt. Just a werewolf, John said. Routine and nothing new. Hell, with the number of werewolves and ghosts they've taken care of, they might as well be professionals (if he thinks about it, they kind of are)._

_But Sam's still young and inexperienced and werewolves are vicious, brutal creatures with razor-sharp claws and jaws strong enough to tear a man apart, especially when they feel threatened. And Dean wasn't watching as closely as he should have been._

_The hunt was over as quickly as it started, but in the end, Sam was half-conscious on the grass alongside the werewolf (riddled with silver bullets, courtesy of Dean) and losing too much blood too quickly from gashes that Dean could only hope were from claws and not teeth. He'd lose it if Sam was bitten._

_And now, for the first time, Sam's been seriously wounded and he's the one in the hospital bed, swathed in clinical white, instead of John or Dean._

_Dean's not sure at which point he falls asleep, but he knows that he wakes up to his dad shaking his shoulder._

" _Sammy's awake," he says, a tired smile gracing his face. "He'll be fine."_

"What?"

"Sam's awake," Cas repeats. He says it slower. Enunciates it better.

Dean puts his boots on without realizing he's moved at all, and he's following Cas to the infirmary because his muscles have taken over since his brain is malfunctioning. One foot finds its way in front of the other, and the pattern continues until they stand in front of a set of stairs that Dean can't bring himself to climb. The stairs that lead into the infirmary.

Cas is three steps up when he notices that Dean's no longer following him. He looked over his shoulder and says, "Dean? Why'd you stop?"

"What am I doing here, Cas?" he asks.

The little boy that he used to drive himself insane worrying over is gone now. That man in the infirmary… he's a stranger. If he's awake and intact, he'll be just another mouth to feed. Another liability to deal with, because it's hard to know the after effects of being Lucifer's vessel. Well, beyond that they aren't good.

He's not someone Dean needs in his life anymore. Dean doesn't _want_ him in his life anymore.

"You're here to see your brother," Cas says. He sounds as confused as Dean feels. "I told you that he's awake now."

"I know, but that doesn't mean I have to see him," Dean says. "I saw him in that abandoned city. I saw him in the quarantine cabin and when we first brought him here. What makes this time different?"

And he knows, somewhere deep within himself, exactly what makes this time different: proof of life. He isn't comatose, at least. The problem is that he's afraid he won't recognize Sam's eyes.

Or worse, he _will_.

Cas grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt and pulls him up the stairs to the door of the infirmary, not that Dean actively resists.

"He's awake this time," Cas says. "That's what's different. That's why you should be here."

It's then that Dean pulls away from Cas' grip. "I don't want to see him awake, because all I'll remember is that it's _his_ fault I've had to watch the world deteriorate."

"He was not the sole cause of the Apocalypse, Dean," Cas says.

"Maybe not, but he sure as hell put the final nail in the coffin."

"Then, go back home," Cas says. "Hold onto your anger because you're too afraid to feel anything else. I brought you here because I remember a man who loved his brother so much, he sold his soul to save him. But maybe that man is as dead as you like to believe Sam is."

Cas turns his back towards Dean and enters the cabin.

A minute later, Dean follows.

The inside of the former-clinic is warm with candlelight at night, casting soft glows onto rooms that were once harshly bright with fluorescent lighting. He doesn't remember the last time he saw a building with lights that could be turned on with a switch.

It's not the best, but he found books meant for hobbyists on all sorts of topics at a library years ago and brought them back to the village. Candle making was among those books, and the villagers learned to create those and more things they once took for granted. Soap. Shampoo. They created gardens that grew and can now sustain the villagers well enough (with supplements from hunting, gathering, and salvaging). He found books about traditional medicine and herbs, which they use when they can get away with it in order to preserve what little modern medicine they still have.

They learned and adapted to their new world, but now he's leaning against the door frame of a small room that might have been an examination room when the building was still a clinic. He's standing on the border between the world he's grown to know, and a world with the man who was once his brother in it. The latter is a world that he's not certain he can adapt to, not anymore.

Sam is on a bed, and looks about the same as he did the last time that Dean saw him.

"I thought you said he's awake," Dean says.

_Sam_ being awake always meant being in motion. Not still. Not… like this.

"His eyes are open," Cas says. "He's awake, but he hasn't said anything. He hasn't looked at anything in particular."

"So, he's not really _there_."

Which, in Dean's mind, is equal to him not being awake. He wants to go back to his cabin and tell Cas that he should only disturb him this late at night if it's something _important_ , but Annette, who's stuck with the night shift at the infirmary that night, stops him from trying to leave.

"I think there's something you should see, Dean," she says. "I don't know how to explain it."

Annette motions for him to come over, and Dean steps into the room, closer to Sam. Close enough to see his eyes open, hazel and owlish as they roll in their sockets and sluggishly blink. Dean knows that he isn't _seeing_. His eyes are glazed over, and the right one isn't fully opened. With the burn scars surrounding that eye, Dean wonders if he'll ever be able to fully open it again. He wonders if he can still see properly out of it, or if there's been too much damage done.

" _Shit, Sammy. That werewolf got you good," Dean says. "You had us pretty scared for a while."_

_Sam looks small when he's wrapped in hospital blankets, and he's almost as pale as the white sheets on the bed. IVs stand guard near the head of his bed, pumping painkillers and other fluids into his tiny, fragile body. His eyes, with their faraway look, find their way to focusing on his face, and Dean can see the haze that the drugs are creating. He sees the lack of clarity and understanding from Sam, and that scares him just a little bit, even if he knows that's to be expected with the heavy medication he's on._

_He smiles, and Dean doesn't realize how much he needed to see such an insignificant gesture until that moment, when the tension that keeps his muscles rigid starts to fade away and he thinks, for the first time since they arrived at the hospital, that Sam will make it through this._

_And he doesn't think that it's his words that Sam smiles at. He doesn't think that what he's saying is breaking through the fog of painkillers to reach Sam's mind. But the sound of his voice might be reaching him, letting him know that he's not alone._

_He hopes that the sound is enough to give Sam a feeling of safety. Of reassurance that he'll be okay, because his big brother is going to take care of everything._

He misses half of what Annette is saying, and only tunes back in as she pulls the thin blankets down to uncover Sam's chest. His shirt's been removed, and bandages have been applied to places where he has cuts and open wounds.

The scarring that Dean's caught glimpses of grows worse as it gets closer to Sam's heart. The flesh there is discolored and raised. Inflamed. The burns paint his skin dark red, and in some places, purple, but the worst scar isn't a burn scar at all. It looks like a stab wound, a line of raised, twisted flesh.

Annette clears her throat. "I have no idea what could cause such a pattern of burns, but I do know one thing." She puts her hand over the stab wound and gently grazes her fingertips over its surface. "With a scar like this one, he shouldn't even be alive right now. This was made by a blade, and judging from the scar, it would've gone quite deep. Deep enough to pierce his heart."

"How's that possible?" Dean asks.

He sees the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest as he breaths. He sees the unfocused, but open, eyes languidly take in his surroundings, as if he can see them and comprehend that they're there. The man lying in front of him is a man who is very much alive.

_Maybe it would be better if he wasn't,_ Dean thinks.

Annette shrugs. She tries to smooth back the hairs that've escaped from her ponytail, but they find their way back in front of her face almost immediately. "I wish I knew, but I don't have those answers. If we knew what happened to him, then maybe."

"He hasn't spoken or anything," Dean says. He doesn't ask it as a question, because he already knows the answer.

"No. Which makes it difficult to tell how much damage was done beyond what we can see."

Dean looks at Cas, who shakes his head and glances over at Annette.

Dean nods, message received. Cas knows something, but it's not something he wants to share around others.

Sam's eyes slip shut again, and Dean lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. This all feels wrong, unnatural (even if part of it _does_ feel more natural than breathing). He hopes that he might wake up in the morning and find that it's all been a dream. He'll go back to just being the leader of Camp Chitaqua, and he'll do it without complaints because that's a job he knows. It's a job he understands.

He doesn't know how to deal with a Sam who said 'yes'. A Sam who's come back after years, scarred and angel-free. A Sam who has mysterious scars that signal he should be dead, but he isn't.

And he knows that he should care more. He promised years ago that he would look after Sam. He made that promise again and again. But when he looks at Sam, the emotions are so mixed that he wouldn't know where to begin sorting them.

He hates Sam, but never fully. He spreads that hate to Lucifer and himself, as well. He spreads it to the angels and demons who played them to send the world into their form of paradise.

He's angry, but that's a default reaction for him most days now. He's angry at Sam for his choices. He's angry at himself for letting Sam walking away, and then for not trying to contact him after he more-or-less told him to fuck off and choose a hemisphere. He's angry at Heaven and Hell for deciding to kick off their party by throwing the world into chaos. He's angry at God (if he exists) for letting them.

He's just so angry at everything. At the unfairness of everything.

But there are smaller parts of him that don't feel so much negativity. They're smothered so deeply within that he's not sure he can reach them anymore, but they hold a touch of happiness and relief. Sam is still his brother, and seeing him alive will always take away some of Dean's worries. It's too ingrained in him to stop it now.

And, if he digs even deeper, there might be a touch of love that he still holds for Sam. The same love that drove him to sell his soul. The love that he can only give his family, and Sam is the only family (by blood) he has left.

Those positive feelings scare him, and he smothers them back inside himself.

"You staying here, Cas?" he asks.

"If I don't, will you?"

Dean doesn't answer. He looks at Cas evenly, but he doesn't give any verbal response.

Cas sighs, then nods. "Yes, I'll be staying."

Dean returns the nod, then turns and leaves the infirmary.

His cabin isn't far from the infirmary, and he finds himself back where he started the night in no time. The box he left on the table is still there, the one with the amulet that Sam gave him so long ago that once meant something hiding within it, but he picks it up and shoves it under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

For now.

* * *

His dreams are mercifully blank, and Cas doesn't bother him again throughout the night. But morning comes too quickly and he has to get up and face his reality.

Not for the first time, but for the first time in a long time, he wishes his dad was there. He wants his father's input. His father's idea as to what the hell he's supposed to do with Sam lying in the infirmary in a village he was never supposed to be in. He wants his father's orders to guide him again.

But all he hears is his father's voice repeating that one order again and again. Watch out for Sammy.

He gets out of bed and grabs whatever he has available to eat on his way to the infirmary. He's not going for the sake of seeing Sam, he tells himself. He's going because he needs to talk to Cas and find out what he couldn't say with Annette there.

He doesn't knock or announce himself when he walks in; he's never felt the need to.

He knows which room is Sam's, and he knows that Cas will still be there because he has the idea in his head that one of them has to be constantly babysitting him, and Dean isn't stepping up to the role.

Sam is still on the bed. David sits in one chair, and Cas in another. He supposes that Sam is lucky no one else is in the infirmary currently. He gets all of the attention from David and Annette as they take turns watching him.

"Hey, Dean," David greets.

"Hey, do you think I could have a minute to talk to Cas?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, sure," David says. He gets up from his chair. "I'll just head out and grab some breakfast. I didn't get the chance to eat earlier."

David leaves without questioning, and Dean imagines that he's just happy Dean finally came by to see the patient, even if that's not the main reason he's there. Then, he wonders how much David knows. If Cas told him that Sam is Dean's brother (but he knows that Cas wouldn't do that without talking to Dean first).

He waits until he's sure that David is out of earshot before looking at Cas. "So, what was it that you didn't want to say in front of anyone else?" he asks.

"Don't you want to know how Sam is first?" Cas asks.

"I don't, but I suspect you're going to tell me anyway."

Cas glares at him, but there are lines and shadows under his eyes from exhaustion that take away any threat it might have had. "He's becoming increasingly restless, but not much more coherent. He favors his left side when he tries shifting, but I suppose that's to be expected with the severity and number of burns on his right side."

"And still no talking?" Dean asks.

"Not a sound," Cas says. "Not even a grunt."

Cas gets up from his chair and pulls the blanket from Sam's chest again, revealing the scars that look even worse in the daylight that streams through the windows.

"My first guess would be that he was stabbed with an angel blade," Cas says. "But look at the stab scar and its location. David says the blade looks like it entered at an angle from the left, and the burns are all on his right side. I don't know of any ordinary angel blade with that kind of power."

"You think the stab and the burns are related?"

Cas pauses for a moment and studies the scars on Sam's chest, deep in thought. Finally, he says, "I'd be surprised if they weren't."

"But we still don't know anything for sure."

Cas shakes his head. "I think the only way we'll find out the whole story is from Sam, and even then…"

When Cas lets his sentence drag into silence for too long, Dean asks, "What?"

"It's difficult to know how aware Sam was during his possession," he says. "Some angels block out the human soul completely. Lock them away inside themselves. Other angels might let the human watch and be aware."

"Does it hurt?" Dean asks. "Being an angel's vessel?"

"There are few fates that worse than being possessed by an angel," Cas says. "To be possessed by an archangel, to be possessed by _Lucifer_ , I don't know how anyone could survive that."

Dean takes a seat in the chair that David had been using when he walked in before his legs give into their urge to stop supporting him. He tries to stifle any lingering feelings he has towards Sam, but hearing about angelic possession—along with the knowledge that Sam had spent so long with _Lucifer_ in control of his body—brings out a sort of empathetic pain deep in his chest. He remembers how much Sam was affected by being possessed by Meg, who was a strong demon, but not even close to the level of a demon like Azazel. To step up from that to possession by _The Devil_? He's tempted to open the window, because the air suddenly feels stale. There's not enough of it in the room.

There's still a connection he doesn't understand tethering him to Sam, and he can't seem to break it. No matter how many times he tries to cut it with anger and hate and disappointment, it remains intact.

And he looks at Sam, who seems peaceful as he sleeps, unaware of the world around him for the moment. He wonders how much Sam knows and how much he understands.

He wonders why Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer in the first place. He had so much faith when they went separate ways that Sam would be okay on his own. So, what happened?

"You could probably use some sleep," Dean says.

"If I go, are you going to stay with Sam?"

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. What does it matter if one of them is with Sam at all times? David and Annette can do just fine looking after him without their additional hovering. But he keeps a straight face and says, "Yeah, I'll stay."

Because Cas, reconnecting to Heaven or not, is still mostly mortal and needs some rest. He tells himself that he's only doing this for Cas, not for Sam.

Cas studies him, looking for any sign of a lie, most likely. But he moves on and nods. "I'll be back later," he says.

Dean shrugs, but Cas has already turned his back and started walking away.

* * *

He's bored. He's _really_ bored. It's been a few hours since Cas left to get some rest, and it's been years since Dean's had nothing to do except sit alone and watch someone who's soundly sleeping.

A few times, Sam shifts, but he quickly settles again, and each time Dean lets out a breath that he never meant to hold.

David returns in intervals to check up on Sam, always tossing a nervous glance towards Dean like he suspects his presence isn't fully welcomed. Then, he lingers for long enough that Dean knows he's going to say something.

And he does. He says, "You and Cas are really interested in this guy's recovery."

"Cas is. I'm here so he can get some rest," Dean says.

David looks at him, and Dean knows that he isn't buying it. He's been patient, but he wants his answers now. It might not have been his business the first time he asked about Dean's attitude towards Sam, but it becomes his business more and more each day they sit there and each day his patient remains unaware.

"I know I can't make you tell me anything, but if you know something about this man, I'd like to be let in on it. I'd like to understand what I'm dealing with here. It'd help."

"It wouldn't help," Dean says.

"If there's some big secret going on, I won't tell anybody," David says.

David looks as surprised as Dean feels when the words tumble from his mouth before he can think about them or stop them.

"He's my brother."


	5. A Knock to the Head

"Holy shit."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Holy shit."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Then, why haven't you been coming in the infirmary that much to check on him? You two part on bad terms or something?"

"You could say that," Dean says. "Although, I think 'bad terms' is putting it lightly."

David nods a few too many times in his attempt to appear casual and sets to checking Sam's bandages (which are not quite necessary anymore considering how quickly his numerous cuts are healing), and Dean suspects that it's to occupy himself from the tense situation he's found himself in.

"Bad enough that you don't want to take this second chance and run with it?" David asks.

Dean doesn't give him an answer. David doesn't know. He doesn't _know_. If he knew, he'd understand. But Dean can't tell him the story without giving away too much information. He can't tell him that Sam is the reason that they're sitting in that infirmary with modern medicine as more of a memory than a reality, aside from a few exceptions that they scavenged from abandoned cities and held onto for worst case scenarios.

"I just," David says. "I mean, there are plenty of people that I was on bad terms with when the world started ending, and I lost the ability to contact them. If I had the chance to see them again and make things right… Man, what I wouldn't give for that."

He knows that he's what everyone else would consider lucky. His brother shows up out of nowhere after years apart. Not everyone who ended up in the village managed to contact their family members after the Apocalypse kicked off. Some of them witnessed the loss of their family members because not everyone was able to escape the cities when they were being overrun by Croats.

"For what it's worth," Dean says, "I wish it'd been someone for you."

David glances at Dean over his shoulder, still pretending that Sam has most of his attention even though Sam's bandages are fresh and he's been steadily unconscious for some time now.

"Please don't waste this chance, Dean. For all the others here who'd do anything to see someone they lost again, just… try."

Dean stands up and stretches his arms. His joints seem to get stiff quicker than they used to and they pop and crackle as he moves, but he knows that the past years haven't been easy on his body.

Plus, he's getting older at twice the rate in this new world that's only about survival. He feels like Earth has adopted the time flow of Hell, ten years for each month.

"Keep an eye on him," Dean says. "I think it's about time for another supply run."

"We bring back less and less each time, having to go farther out. How many more supply runs can we make?" David asks.

It's a question that Dean's asked himself many times, but he's never found an answer. There's always something for him to bring back to the village, and that's enough to keep him organizing groups and venturing out, but the amount he finds each time continues to dwindle. He's not the only one to have noticed it, and he knows that soon they'll have to hope they can function as a self-sufficient community.

No more emergency modern medicine, they'll have to rely on their natural remedy knowledge.

No more little luxuries from the past, they'll have to make do with what they have. They'll have to keep improving how they farm and how they raise livestock. They'll have to become farmers, butchers, and gatherers to survive.

He has more than enough to deal with without having to think about Sam, too.

"You let me handle that," Dean says. He gestures at Sam on the bed, blissfully unaware of the hellhole of a world that's around him. "You handle _him_."

Dean tries to leave, but David stops him by saying, "Hey."

"What?"

"What's his name? I feel bad treating him for so long without knowing."

"Sam," Dean says. "His name's Sam."

Dean leaves the infirmary. Sam's name felt strange on his lips, but so familiar. He can't remember the last time he said his brother's name aloud, but he knows that years must have passed without him uttering it.

It's not something he has time to dwell on.

* * *

He rounds up enough people and trucks to go on a supply run, but they have to drive for most of the day to reach a city that they haven't scavenged to the point that there's nothing left but abandoned buildings and rotting foundations.

Driving farther out to cities they haven't scoured dry means more risks. Croats that are still hanging around (but thankfully slowly dying out due to their apparent unwillingness, or inability, to create more Croats in ways that didn't include turning humans).

Dean takes a longer turn than the others for driving. He doesn't mind; he likes behind in control of a vehicle, even if it isn't Baby. He likes the dust that gets kicked up behind him as he drives down abandoned roads. But he worries about gasoline. There's never a guarantee that they'll have a chance to refuel, and traveling farther away presents yet another risk regarding if they'll have to walk back because their trucks give out on them.

It isn't ideal, but he works with what he can get.

For now, he drives down neglected, dusty roads in the darkness, his window rolled down and one arm draped across the opening to feel the chill of the autumn night on his skin.

_Sam doesn't think it's a werewolf, but their dad does, and his word is law in their family. Plus, the moon is going to be full in a few days, so they have to hurry, and they don't have time for second-guessing themselves. So, Sam is told to sit in the backseat quietly. Sleep, if he wants to, but don't bother anyone else in the car. Speak only when spoken to._

_And Dean knows it's not fair to Sam, but it's his turn to drive and, honestly, he likes the silence. Sam is smart, and he might be right, but their dad discounts the details that Sam points out because he likes to argue and create tension more and more these days._

_Dean stays silent and ignores the pleading and angry looks from Sam. The silent begging for some sort of back-up in his arguments with their dad. Instead, Dean focuses on the road and enjoys the night air as it pours into the Impala through the opened windows. There aren't many other cars on the road so late, and Dean thinks that this could be his Heaven if Sam stopped picking arguments at every turn._

_It's been a long day, and they have a long night of driving ahead of them yet. Sam fuming in silence in the backseat is the best case scenario for them at the moment, if only because it allows them all a break from being at each other's throats. Or, more specifically, Sam and John being at each other's throats while Dean tries to pretend that he doesn't hear anything at all._

_He assures himself that Sam will understand why he doesn't defend him in all his arguments one day._

Looking back, Dean can pinpoint all the moments that led up to Sam's eventual flight to Stanford. He never defended Sam in his many fights with their dad, and he knows that Sam resented him a little more for it each time. That hunt that he remembers from so long ago _wasn't_ a werewolf. Sam had been right, but no one wanted to listen to him.

Maybe he forgave Dean along the way, but Dean isn't looking for his forgiveness.

As far as Dean is concerned, it's Sam who needs to seek out forgiveness now. He broke the world. He said 'yes' to Lucifer.

The word 'why' echos through Dean's head with each spin of the tires on the beaten path he drives down.

* * *

The city isn't empty, but it isn't filled with humans. It's crawling with Croats, and Dean regrets choosing this direction for his supply run, but he's running out of places to check for supplies. There are too many little red marks on his map, and soon the entire area surrounding Camp Chitaqua is going to be its own version of a red sea.

He's distracted, too. He knows that, and he knows that it's not helping anyone. He can't stop thinking about Sam back at the village. Sam who woke up after being possessed by The Devil, but hasn't shown any meaningful awareness yet. Sam, whose identity is only known by a handful, which now includes David because Dean let it slip without meaning to.

For so long, he introduced Sam in the same way. It has to be that age-old habit kicking back in that made him slip up.

It isn't sentimentality or any of that shit. It's a habit and nothing more.

They arrive late enough into the night that the sun is starting to rise and they spend the better part of the morning scavenging. He takes two of their group of five (including himself) with him and leaves the other two with their trucks so they can escape if needed. If the flare is sent up to signal that the group that went in is better of being left behind.

They find some of the things that they needed (and lucked out that the pharmacy hadn't been picked completely clean, apparently Croats had no need for modern medicine), but it's not nearly as much as they used to find years ago, when things first went to shit and the confusion of it all meant that people were sloppy with what they remembered to take with them when they abandoned infested cities.

He sneaks into a building after the Croats who look to be on patrol pass by, two of the villagers silently following behind him. He can't see the sign for where he's entering, but it looks like it might have been a market once upon a time. In a better world.

A world filled with excess food made by strangers and served by waitresses who wrote their phone numbers on his receipt, dotting each 'i' and 'j' with a heart. A world filled with as much liquor as he could drink, and then some. A world with mind-numbing television shows (and his guilty pleasure, Dr. Sexy).

A world where he had a brother.

No. He shakes his head. He can't think about Sam right now. He can't let himself be continually distracted by the ghosts of his past.

And that's what Sam is at most. A ghost. A shell of who he might've been once before. A broken man who's barely capable of waking up and staying awake for more than a matter of minutes.

"Shit. Dean, look out!"

Dean doesn't have time to regain awareness of his surroundings before he's knocked to the ground and out of his thoughts. He tries to push the Croat away, but it's strong and dead set on turning him.

His head is bashed against the floor, leaving him dazed and his vision blurry. He feels the sharp pain of a cut being made on his arm, but the pressure of the Croat rubbing their blood into his cut never comes.

In fact, the weight keeping him down lifts, and he can breathe a little easier.

Hands are on him, trying to assess his condition and help him sit up. It takes more effort than he'd like, but he's pulled upright, and then to his feet.

"Dean? Dean, we have to get out of here."

The words make it to his brain, but he has a hard time understanding them. He feels like he's underwater, sluggish and disoriented. He's led out of the building and towards the trucks, where the two villagers they left behind are waiting for them to return or send a flare to signal them to leave and abandon the other three.

He hears jumbled combinations of words asking if he's okay and what happened and where Ryan is, but his head is pounding and he can't concentrate long enough to form an answer, much less a coherent sentence.

He blinks and finds himself half-lying in the backseat of one of the trucks, every bump and dip in the road sending a new spike of pain through his head. He doesn't completely understand what's going on, but he knows that he's been hurt and the situation went sour quickly enough that they hauled ass out of there.

Before he can strain his aching brain searching for answers, the world goes black.

* * *

He wakes up in a bed in a room that isn't his own. There's still a throb deep in his head, and the minimal amount of light he sees when he pries his eyes open is too much, but he can think again. A Croat almost got him, but he's not in the quarantine cabin and he hasn't turned, so the Croat didn't succeed.

He sits up and looks around. The infirmary. The light comes from a series of candles lit in his room, and he adjusts enough to keep his eyes open in their soft glow. He must not be that hurt if no one is in his room waiting for him to wake up.

That task more often than not falls to Cas, but even he isn't there.

Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed and touches his bare feet to the cold surface of the ground. The chill sends a shiver up his spine, but it keeps him focused. He refuses to let the pain in his head cloud his thoughts again.

He needs to know what happened after that Croat tried to make his head into a new floor tile. So, he puts one foot in front of the other and stumbles into the hallway as the world around him spins. But once he gets to the hallway, he slumps against the wall for support before he finds himself on the floor.

"Dean, what are you doing out of bed?" Cas asks, poking his head out of the door of a room farther down the hall, then storming out towards Dean. "You need to rest."

Dean swats at Cas' hands as he tries to help him back to his bed. "I need to know what happened," he says.

"I'll tell you when you're lying down," Cas says. "You have a nasty concussion, so you need the rest. You need to take it easy, if you can remember how."

Cas grips his arm, and Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making a sound at the sudden flare of pain.

Cas notices and lets go. "Sorry. I forgot that you were cut as well."

When Cas ushers him back to the bed in a gentler manner, Dean doesn't put up a fight. As much as he hates to admit it, he doesn't have the strength to try and pretend that he can keep doing something as simple as standing.

Lying back down helps ease the pain in his head, but the confusion becomes more prominent in its absence.

"What the hell happened, Cas?"

"From what I'm told, a Croat got you. He smashed your head into the floor and was about to infect you, but Ryan intervened… He killed the Croat, but he didn't make it out," Cas says.

After all these years, Cas still has a way of making important things sound mundane. While there's a little more inflection and emotion in his speech, it's like he's speaking about an event he read about where he doesn't know the people to whom the names listed belong.

"Shit," Dean says. "I was distracted and I… It shouldn't have happened."

His mind automatically brings the phrase 'This is Sam's fault' to the tip of his tongue, but he clenches his jaw shut so the words can't escape. It doesn't matter if he believes that or not. It's Cas he's talking to, and Cas has defended Sam since the moment they found him in that abandoned home.

But it's true that if they hadn't found Sam, Dean wouldn't have been distracted on the supply run. He wouldn't have been caught off guard and Ryan wouldn't have had to give his own life to save Dean's.

It all comes back to Sam. Sam, who let Lucifer out of his cage. Sam, who said 'yes' and ended the world.

Sam, who is a matter of feet away in another room, a remnant of who he once was and angel-free.

"This is a dangerous world," Cas says. "People die, Dean. This is nothing new."

"That never makes it any easier."

Cas doesn't say anything. He stands and watches Dean with that speculative look that Dean saw so often when Cas was a full angel, like he can't figure out humans. He's learned a lot over the years as a mortal, but Cas was not born a man. He's regaining his grace, and Dean wonders if he's losing his experience of humanity at the same time.

But he thinks back to how Cas has watched over Sam when it would've been Dean's job before the Apocalypse. Maybe he isn't losing his humanity as he regains his grace.

Maybe he's just losing his faith in Dean.

"You know why I always choose groups of three to go on scavenging missions?" Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head.

"It reminds me of a time when I was part of a hunting family," Dean says. He closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in his memories. "Just me, my dad, and Sammy."

He misses those simpler times. The times where he hunted things and saved people with his family, and all that mattered was that they were together.

* * *

His head feels better by the time morning comes, but only slightly. He gets up and doesn't plan on staying in the infirmary for another day or night. If he's going to need rest, he can get it in his own cabin.

But when his feet touch the ground, he moves towards Sam's room. He expected to see Cas sitting beside Sam, and he isn't disappointed in that respect. He's glad that it's Annette in the room today. He doesn't want to deal with David, who knows too much.

David, who likely craves more of the story he's had only a taste of. Who craves to know what happened between him and Sam, even though he can't even begin to understand.

"Feeling better, Dean?" Annette asks.

"I'm fine," Dean says.

"Well, I'm glad at least one of my patients is back to his feet," Annette says. "Even if he's lying through his teeth about being fine. I know your head is killing you when my voice is enough to make you wince."

"If I can move, I'm fine," Dean says. He gestures at Sam. "You can worry about… _him_ instead."

"I am worried about him," she says. "But there's no way to tell if he'll even so much as talk. Not without the medical technology we used to have. All we can do is wait and see if he improves until he stops improving. Then, well, who knows?"

"Has he been improving?" Dean asks.

"He's shifting more, and appears to be trying to lift his arms. He'll open his eyes for longer periods of time, and he seems to be actually seeing what's around him, like he's more focused and aware."

"Is he making any sounds?"

"No words," Annette says. "But he does make sounds. Groans. Maybe a sigh now and then. Things like that."

Dean nods. He doesn't know if he was hoping for Sam to start speaking or not. It'd make it easier for him to get answers as to what happened after they separated, but he doesn't want to hear Sam's justifications. He doesn't want to hear excuses.

He wants Sam to suffer as much as he has over the years. He wants Sam to know he's made the wrong decision, and he wants Sam to face those consequences without an archangel taking the reins for him. Cas says that being possessed by an archangel is a fate he wouldn't wish on anyone, but all Dean is seeing is someone who ruined the world and now gets to check out so completely as to be unaware of the damage he's caused.

He isn't being fair—he knows that—but it wasn't fair to him that Sam made the decision to say 'yes' without saying a goddamn thing to him first.

" _Pick a hemisphere."_

He might have pushed Sam away and tried to make him stay away, but that didn't mean he couldn't have called him and let him know that he was about to make a colossal fucking mistake.

He wants Sam to wake up so that he can direct his self-loathing at his brother instead of having it weigh down his gut.

"You know," Annette says, breaking him away from his thoughts, "David has started calling him Sam."

"He say why?" Dean asks.

"No, but it kinda fits, doesn't it?"

"I guess," Dean says.

The silence that fills the room isn't tense, but it's close. It's uncomfortable, and Sam would be squirming if he knew he has three sets of eyes on him, watching him in his unconscious state.

Annette clears her throat. "I'll give you two some time to talk," she says, and she leaves.

"Why are you here, Dean?" Cas asks once Annette closes the door and is no longer within hearing distance.

Dean watches Sam's sleeping face. He looks so young, even with the burn scars. His body hasn't aged during his possession, but when he sleeps, he always looks much younger than his real age. He looks like a kid again.

_Dean sits at the table of another small motel room in a long line of motel rooms. Sam's asleep in one of the beds, and Dean is waiting for their dad to return._

_He's two days late. One more day, and Dean will call Pastor Jim. They'll assume the worst._

_With the thoughts of all the horrible possibilities running through his head, he can't sleep. He can't even try sleeping. So, he sits. He watches the door, and he watches Sam. He watches Sam's chest rise and fall. He listens to Sam's restless shifting and quiet murmurs._

_Sam knows about hunting, and Dean wishes that he didn't. Sam's been on hunts, and he's been hurt more times than Dean likes. But he doesn't know that their dad was supposed to be back two days ago._

_It's better this way._

_Dean gets up and stands over Sam, unable to believe how young he looks in his sleep. When he's awake, the reality of their lives weighs him down. In his sleep, he's free._

_Dean pulls the blankets higher, until they rest just under Sam's chin._

_He's prepared._

_If their dad doesn't come back, Dean's prepared to do what he has to._

_For Sam._

"I was already here," Dean says. "I woke up here."

"Not _here_. You woke up in a different room. If you want nothing to do with Sam, why would you come to his room?"

Dean shrugs. "Maybe I want answers from him. Maybe I want him to explain why he did what he did."

"You want to give him a chance?"

"No," Dean says. "I just want to know why he ended the world."

"And then what?" Cas asks. "What will you do then? Kill him? Leave him on his own when he clearly won't survive? David and Annette doubt that he'll ever have full mobility on his right side again. Not with those burns."

The thought of killing Sam leaves a sour taste in his mouth. The scarred, sleeping body of his brother isn't easy to look at—or think about—but he's never been able to kill Sam. He's never had that in him.

Even when it sent the world spiraling onto a path towards chaos and desperation, he couldn't bring himself to kill Sam.

"No, I won't kill him," Dean says.

"Then, give him a chance," Cas says. "You don't know his story, and I think that we'll need to hear it before we decide anything."

"What could he possibly say to justify his decision to destroy the world?" Dean asks, his voice rising to a yell as he spins around to face Cas.

But Cas isn't looking at him, he's looking past him. At Sam.

Dean turns again, and he understands. He understands, because _Sam_ is the one looking at him. He's looking _at_ him. Not through him. Not past him.

His eyes are open. He's looking at Dean.

He's aware.


	6. Strangers in Strange Lands

Sam's eyes are as expressive as they've always been. They're filled with emotion to the point that Dean feels like he's drowning in it, but he can't identify the individual emotions hidden like he once could. In the days when he could have read those emotions, he might've tried saying something to cover up what Sam just heard. Something to quell the pain his words undoubtedly caused. He could try to spin what he said into a misunderstanding, or tell any number of lies.

But he doesn't.

Sam's right eye doesn't open as wide as his left eye, the scar tissue from his burns hinders it too much. It reminds him that this Sam is different from the Sam he used to know, and that keeps him from falling victim to the pain that he'd once do anything to remove.

He isn't going to explain himself to Sam, or try to spare Sam's feelings. He shouldn't have to try and take back words in which he believes. Words which he sees as the truth.

The longer they stay silent, the more he notices the bone-deep pain in Sam's eyes. The mess of emotions that he first saw have boiled down to just pain, and Dean crushes the instinct to comfort him with an iron grip. This Sam isn't deserving of his comfort. He doesn't deserve absolution.

Sam's eyes shift away from his and down to his chest, and it isn't hard for Dean to figure out what he's looking for.

The amulet.

He removed that amulet from around his neck years ago, putting it in a wooden box with other remnants of his past and storing it under his bed where it could sit and collect dust. Out of sight, out of mind. Only, for those first few weeks, he seemed incapable of removing the thought of it from his mind whether it was in his sight or not.

That amulet once meant something. It was more than an accessory given to him as a Christmas gift. It used to be a symbol, but Dean doesn't know what to think of it anymore. He brought out the box the other night, when Sam's reappearance was fresh and nothing could get that fact out of his mind (and, if he's being honest, nothing can now, either), but he hasn't done anything with it since.

Sam turns his head so that he faces away from Dean and closes his eyes again, and Dean is more than okay with that. He isn't prepared to deal with any of this, much less process it. The voice in the back of his head that repeats his wish that Sam had never shown up again makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else, though he's certain that his concussion isn't helping.

"I'm going to go back to my cabin," Dean says. To Cas, not Sam. "Get some rest and all that. Doctor's orders."

He knows that Sam isn't asleep. He knows that Sam is listening to each and every word spoken in that room. Unless he's somehow lost his hearing along the way, but Dean dismisses that possibility. Sam stared at him like that earlier because he'd heard what Dean said.

"Dean…"

"No, Cas," Dean says, turning away from Sam. "I don't want to hear it right now. Don't bother me unless a _second_ Apocalypse starts."

The venom in his own voice surprises him, but he supposes it shouldn't. His head feels like it's trying to split itself open, he has to fight the instinct he buried inside himself to avoid comforting Sam like nothing has changed between them, and he has to stand in the same room with Sam while combating the mess of emotions that alone brings.

" _Watch out for Sammy."_

Dean shakes his head and laughs under his breath as he walks out of the room. Take care of Sammy? He hasn't done that in years, so why should he start now?

No, he needs to take care of himself. He needs to take care of the villagers who need him.

First, he's going to take care of himself and his throbbing head. Has his cabin always been so far away from the infirmary? Shit.

By the time he slips into his front door, he's stumbling and barely able to stay upright long enough to kick his boots off and draw the curtains shut over every window. Then, finally he strips off the outer layers of his clothes and wraps himself in the softness of his bed. The blankets no longer overheat him as the days grow colder and winter draws nearer.

He misses the days when he could pop a few pills and his pain would lessen enough to at least be able to think. Now, he can only wait and hope that darkness and warmth can help.

* * *

_He hates poltergeists. He_ really _fucking hates poltergeists._

_And brick walls._

_It's the first time in a long time that he's had a concussion, but it isn't any less painful than he remembers. The draft in the room isn't helping, either. It makes his head colder than it should be, and the effect is that much worse thanks to the freshly shaved back of his head. He's told it was a mess of matted blood and cuts that needed stitches, but it's going to take longer than he likes to get the length of his hair right again._

_He tries to sit up, but hands on his shoulders push him back down._

" _Shit, Dean," Sam says. "Don't move, okay? I know you probably feel terrible, but Dad isn't back yet with the painkillers."_

_Dean hears himself groan, but he's having a hard time processing anything that_ isn't _the pounding in his head. Sam shifts in the chair beside his bed, each sound amplified to a volume that shouldn't be humanly possible._

" _Yeah," Sam says. "I'd give you something if I thought it'd help, but Dad forged a prescription for some of the good stuff. I'm sure that it's worth waiting for, but I wish you'd stayed asleep until he got back."_

_Sam keeps his voice quiet when he talks. While Dean appreciates the consideration, it isn't as appreciated as some heavy-duty painkillers would be._

_Dean closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, Sam is hovering over him and trying to help him sit up without any jarring movements with one hand, and holding a glass of water in the other hand._

_It's strange to be the one in the bed being nursed back to health. Usually, he's holding the bedside vigil and trying to figure out ways he can ease the pain of his brother or father._

_It's comforting to know that, when he's the one in pain, his family is willing to reciprocate and take care of him. For all his confidence, it's the moments where he's the most vulnerable that his place in life is reaffirmed. Hunting and protecting the people he loves._

_The people who love him._

He pries his eyes open, and finds that the room is darker than he remembers. He's slept the day away.

He plans on sleeping the night away, too, but he wishes that his memories would leave him alone. Even in his sleep, he doesn't seem to be safe from the moments he shared with Sam.

The old Sam.

Cas respected his request, at least, and hasn't come to bother him. There's a part of him that wants to go ask Cas if he still has any prescriptions that he stole hidden away, but he decides against it. He can handle an aching head. He's a grown man, a concussion isn't going to kill him.

Although, when he thinks about it, he's had more than his fair share of head injuries. Those have to stack up, don't they? How many more can he sustain before he's facing some serious brain damage?

He pushes the thoughts away and rolls over, pulling the blankets higher. Sleeping the day away hasn't made him any less tired, and he plans on staying hidden in his own cabin until the pain in his head dulls enough for the daily activities of life to be manageable.

* * *

Knock.

Dean rolls over.

Knock.

Dean pulls the blankets high over his head.

Knock. Knock.

Dean groans and gets himself to his feet, grabbing the knife from beneath his pillow before he makes his way to the door. Whoever is on the other side is about to be fucking shanked by a man who isn't wearing pants, because his head still hurts and he still wants to be left alone. Is that too much to ask? But the villagers can't seem to leave him be when he wants them to the most.

He opens the door and finds Cas standing in front of it. He's cleaner overall, but his time watching over Sam has given Cas a different sort of exhausted look. More like a frustrated parent than a hopeless man who's going through the motions. With a roll of his eyes, he sets his knife to the side.

"I thought I said not to bother me unless another Apocalypse starts," Dean says.

"You're being unreasonable, Dean."

"I don't want to talk to you right now," Dean says. "My head is still killing me. I don't need you making it worse."

"You don't have to talk to me. You can just listen," Cas says, as if that's a better option. "You're being completely unreasonable about this whole situation. How can you say something like that in front of Sam, then leave him even after you saw the pain in his eyes that _you_ caused?"

"What about the pain that he's caused me, Cas?" Dean asks. "What about my pain? Why should I have to shoulder his burdens because he shows up out of nowhere and is probably not going to survive on his own in this shitty world?"

"Because he wasn't the only one who landed us in this mess!"

Cas' voices rises with each word, and Dean has to consciously keep himself from wincing at the volume.

"He didn't let Lucifer out of The Cage on his own, and for all we know, he might have had a role in Lucifer's apparent disappearance," Cas continues, his voice much softer. "So, you shouldn't place this all on him. You broke the first seal, Dean. I played my part in starting the Apocalypse, too."

"Saying 'yes' was his decision. The blame for that is all on him."

Dean feels like he's grasping at straws now, trying to justify the hate and the anger he holds towards Sam. Trying to shy away from the guilt and self-loathing he hides. He feels childish trying to defend himself in an argument with Cas, but the beliefs he built so strongly over the past years are starting to crumble with Sam's reappearance, and he needs to hold onto those beliefs to stay sane.

"Think back, Dean. Do you really think the Sam that you knew would say 'yes' without a good reason?" Cas asks. "We don't know what happened to make him give in. He could have been tricked. Lucifer is known for his manipulation techniques. He can convince someone of lies by telling only the truth."

Dean knows about that. He knows that the past years have probably been the worst of Sam's life, but it's so much easier to be angry than it is to consider the possible horrors that Sam might have faced on his own.

And why didn't he call Dean if things were getting bad enough for him to consider giving in to Lucifer?

Dean sits at one of the chairs at his table, and Cas takes a seat opposite of him.

"Please just leave, Cas."

"Dean…"

"This isn't helping anyone. A concussion is more than enough for me to deal with right now. I don't want to talk about _him_."

"You barely even say his name anymore, Dean. You sold your soul for him once. What happened to that man? What happened to the Dean who loved his brother more than himself?"

"Dead," Dean says. "Killed by demons, then tortured in Hell until he was just a shadow of himself."

"Well, that's the man Sam needs right now. He doesn't need your anger. He doesn't need you kicking him when he's already at his lowest. Do you know how I'm repenting for my role in helping start the Apocalypse? I'm taking care of a tortured soul, because the person he really needs won't," Cas says.

He gets up and leaves Dean alone at the table. He's only told the truth, and Dean knows that. He knows that he's being unreasonable and unfair.

But he doesn't remember how to take care of a hurting Sam anymore. He doesn't remember how to comfort another human being.

He lies down again, but sleep doesn't come easily. Not even a memory-filled sleep.

And it gives him far too much time to think.

* * *

He asked David to give him some time alone with Sam, and now that his request has been granted, he doesn't know why he's there. While David was more than happy to give the brothers some quality time—even going as far as giving Dean a pat on the shoulder and a nod like he was praising Dean for taking his advice and giving this… whatever this is a shot—Dean still doesn't know if he's making the right choice here.

It helps that Sam is still asleep. He hasn't noticed Dean's presence, and that means Dean can leave and pretend that he was never there in the first place. Let Cas take over again when he gets up from his much needed nap.

But he doesn't. He sits in the chair beside Sam's bed and remembers all the times in the past that he's been in this position.

All those other times, however, no one could get him to leave the room no matter how hard they tried. What's so different this time?

They're different. It's them. Both of them. They made the wrong choices that snowballed to the point that Dean feels like he's sitting and watching over a stranger.

The lack of pain in his head now that his concussion has had time to heal makes it too easy to think clearly about his situation.

His entire life has been a mantra to watch out for Sammy. Look after his little brother. Keep him safe.

But he couldn't do any of those things, and now, after years of having to watch out for himself and the general well-being of the village, he isn't sure that he can go back to that mindset. He isn't sure that they can ever go back to the way they were before Hell and demons and angels.

Things are so twisted now, that he wouldn't even know where to start. He doesn't know if he wants to start. With Cas willing to pick up in taking care of Sam, he can shove the responsibility onto someone else and keep his distance.

That, he thinks, would be better for everyone. Cas is wrong. Or maybe he's right in that Dean as he is now is not the person Sam needs. He doesn't think that he can ever be the person Sam needs again.

And Sam can never be the person _he_ needs.

"How did we get here?" Dean asks in the quiet room.

The curtains over the windows are open enough to let some sunlight stream in, but the infirmary has a way of making even the lightest things seem dim. Although, he prefers it to the sickening brightness of hospitals. He knows that hospitals are an essential piece of society that will take too long to start up again, but there's a large part of him that won't miss them.

There's an even larger part of him that gets frustrated every time someone dies of something that would have been preventable in the past. That's the part of him that craves the return of hospitals packed full of modern medicine and trained doctors.

"What went so wrong?" Dean asks.

He should be asking what _didn't_ go wrong somewhere along the line. He only wanted to save Sam, and he damned himself.

And by damning himself, he damned the world and left Sam to be manipulated.

Cas is right in that Sam alone is not to blame for the state of the world. He was just the final nail in a coffin built by others.

Those thoughts bring on an amount of guilt that he feels like he's drowning in, and that guilt brings anger.

It's a vicious circle, and it's not going to help anybody if he keeps getting stuck in it.

He rests his forearms on his knees and lets his head droop down. Every fiber of his being wants to run. Leave and not come back. Pretend that Sam never came back. That job of caretaker that he once took so seriously is no longer meant for him. He doesn't fit that position anymore.

"I, uh…"

He what? He's sorry?

No, he's not sorry.

He wishes that things could've been different?

Well, of course he does, but that sounds too weird. That's the same line he used on many, many women when it was time for him to move onto a new town, he can't use that line with Sam.

He's here?

When he thinks about it, that one is technically true. Dean is there. He is physically present in the room with Sam. It's detached enough, too.

Not that it matters, because when Dean raises his head to continue his broken sentence from before, Sam's head is turned towards him with his eyes open. Open and aware and looking right at him once again.

Dean is surprised enough that any words he was prepared to say have vanished from his mind.

"It's, uh, easier to talk to you when you're asleep," Dean says.

It's not the right thing to say. Hell, it's not even a decent thing to say, especially when there's no humor in his voice as he says it. But it's the truth.

Maybe after the years they spent lying to each other before they separated, the truth needs to be the foundation of anything between them, whether it's a renewed brotherhood or simply coexisting in the same village.

They can't afford to start more webs of lies this time around.

"I'm pissed," he says. "Most of the time, it's hard to even be in the same room with you. I'm pissed, and I want answers that I'm not sure I'll ever get because no one can tell if you'll ever be able to talk again."

Sam's eyes are still open, but he focuses his attention elsewhere. He shouldn't, but Dean likes being free from Sam's overly intense gaze.

"The people who know who you are keep trying to convince me to come here and, you know, _try,_ " Dean says. "I'm not gonna lie, it's really fucking hard. And I'm not going to promise you anything. I'm not going to promise that we can work things out, because I'm not sure we can. I'm not gonna promise that things will be alright, because things are pretty fucking far from alright these days. I don't know where we go from here. I don't know if _we_ go anywhere from here."

Dean takes a deep breath. Sam has his eyes closed now, but he's still awake. He's squeezing his eyes shut, like he's expecting Dean to take a swing at him. Maybe, Dean thinks, he is taking swings at Sam. Verbal swings.

"I'm just being honest here. I mean, look where lying has ever gotten us."

Sam nods, and it's such a minuscule gesture that Dean wonders if he imagined it.

"I know it isn't what you want to hear."

He leaves out that it isn't what he wants to say, either. What he wants to say is a lot harsher, and he's pretty sure that those words would effectively burn any bridges starting to be rebuilt between them.

"But it's what you need to hear, because I don't want you to think that nothing's changed. I hate to break it to you, but everything's changed. _I've_ changed."

Sam opens his eyes and stares again. Dean almost gives into the urge to squirm, but it isn't because of the emotion in Sam's eyes. Just like the last time he was in this room, he can't read the emotion in Sam's eyes. He can't read the emotion, and this is when he needs to be able to read Sam better than ever. If he won't communicate verbally, they have to pick up on his non-verbal cues. They need to _know_ him, but that's hard when Dean has been trying to forget him for years.

They are, and may forever be, strangers.


	7. Blink Once for 'Yes'

Dean doesn't stay in the infirmary for long after he talks to Sam. After he talks _at_ Sam. He thought his conviction would hold, but the more he's in the same room as Sam, the more the ideas he tried to ingrain into himself are shaken.

He doesn't seek out Cas. He knows that Cas' views won't be changing any time soon, and he's heard enough from him. He's been nagged enough about giving Sam a chance. About trying to learn the story from Sam's side before he judges.

No, he doesn't feel like speaking with Cas again soon. The only reason he puts up with his new attitude is because he sacrifices so much time to help care for Sam, or so Dean tells himself.

Instead, he finds himself on the path to Chuck's cabin, former prophet turned inventory manager. He's never been completely clear on whether or not Chuck's visions of them stopped somewhere along the line, but Chuck hasn't given any indication that they've continued past the Apocalypse. Dean doesn't remember when Chuck stopped talking about them. He doesn't remember if Chuck's said anything about it, or thought it'd be better to keep to himself since Dean is always in a sour mood these days (with good reason, he tells himself).

He pounds on the door with a balled fist and enough force to make the aged wood groan.

Chuck might be sleeping, but he comes off as a little too neurotic and jittery to get more than a couple hours, at best, and in sporadic intervals. Dean waits for Chuck to answer, and he realizes that he has no idea what he does in his spare time. His life can't be just counting how much they have and what they need.

As the leader of Camp Chitaqua, is he supposed to know those things? Is he supposed to be more invested in the lives of the villagers beyond their usefulness?

When he thinks about it, he has no idea what almost all of the villagers do in their free time. He's never been the type to involve himself in the business of others when he doesn't have to. He's never been the type to try and insert himself into the lives of others.

That's… That's Sam's thing.

It's a small mercy when Chuck opens the door and drags Dean out of his thoughts.

"Dean?" Chuck asks. "Wha-what are you doing here? Did you need something? I didn't think that there was anything I needed to do today. I just gave you an updated inventory report and—"

"I just wanted to talk to you, Chuck," Dean says.

Chuck opens the door a little wider and steps aside to let Dean in, immediately closing and locking the rusted lock once he's inside.

"So, uh, what did you want to talk about?" Chuck asks.

He fidgets and looks everywhere except at Dean. While he expects this sort of behavior from Chuck, it still makes Dean wonder if there's more behind why he's so uncomfortable. It might be residual guilt from peering into their lives for years, and then writing about it and publishing books for anyone to read.

Could it be guilt about _still_ peering into their lives (albeit unintentionally), and then refusing to tell them anything?

"I just wanted to talk about…"

"About Sam?" Chuck asks.

"How'd you—"

"It's written all over your face, Dean. I know more about you than I'd like to."

"So, have you seen anything about him? About what happened to him, or about how we ended up here?"

"I, uh, I stopped seeing things around the same time Cas started becoming a mortal," Chuck says.

And Dean knows that Chuck is lying to an extent. Part of that might be true. He suspects that part _is_ true, but there's something about the way he worded his answer, about the tone he used, that strikes Dean as being off.

"I believe that," Dean says, "but I want to know the part that you're not telling me."

Chuck paces, then takes a seat in one of his chairs like his legs can no longer support him. "I _did_ stop having visions, but, uh, that didn't last forever."

"What have you seen?"

"More than I would've liked," Chuck says. The end of his words is accented with a humorless laugh. "More than I ever needed to see."

"I'm guessing that it wasn't me that you were looking in on," Dean says.

Chuck shakes his head.

"So, you saw…"

"I know why Sam gave in," Chuck says. "I know what led up to the Apocalypse, and I saw how it ended."

"Why?" Dean asks. "Why did he…?"

Dean wanted to sound forceful, to intimidate the answers out of Chuck, but he sounds broken and lost instead. Right in front of him is a man who holds the answers he needs the most. A man who can vocalize those answers, unlike the person who lived through it all is only capable of opening and closing his eyes along with the smallest movements.

"Dean… I know you want answers, but I can't give them to you."

Dean takes a deep breath past the lump of mixed anger and sadness in his throat. "Why not?"

"It would be best for you to hear it from Sam," Chuck says. "This is his story to tell."

"We don't even know if he'll ever talk again," Dean yells. He lashes out at the closest piece of furniture in Chuck's house, a small end table, knocks it over.

Chuck jumps a bit at his outburst, but appears to hold himself together about as well as he always has. Which isn't saying much.

"I believe that he will, Dean," Chuck says. "You just have to believe in him, too."

Dean shakes his head. "I can't do that. I can't. There's so much, and I…"

He leans against the nearest wall and slumps to the floor, resting his forehead against his knees. He hears Chuck's footsteps, then feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"If it helps, I'll tell you that it wasn't a choice," Chuck says. "When Sam agreed to be Lucifer's vessel, he felt like he didn't have any other choice. He felt like he didn't have a choice at all."

* * *

What Chuck told him hasn't helped. In fact, Dean feels more confused about the entire situation. Had Chuck told him the whole story, he could've played judge, jury, and executioner and been done with it all.

Instead, he's back at the infirmary staring down at Sam. It's Annette's shift, and she looks uncomfortable with his silent presence. Despite that, she maintains her professionalism and works around him when she needs to. After a few attempts to ask him what the fuck he's doing (with infinitely nicer words), she's given up and lets silence reign.

Chuck tells him that Sam felt like he didn't have any choice, but what does that mean? There's always a choice. Sam always chooses to make things more complicated than they need to be.

Still, what sort of situation could Sam have gotten himself into that left him feeling like the only option he had was agreeing to host Lucifer?

The more he learns, the more questions he has. The one that burns the most at the back of his throat, begging to be asked is 'why'.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why did Sam say 'yes'?

Why is Sam back?

Why won't Chuck tell him the whole story?

Why is Lucifer apparently gone?

Why can't Dean choose a side?

With Sam, or against Sam. Help or abandon.

Honestly, the only choice that appeals to him would be to go back to his cabin, lock himself in, and spend the next week (at least) getting absolutely shit-faced. Unfortunately for him, the lack of a steady liquor supply hinders that plan.

He's not sure how long he stands there, but he's surprised that he hasn't seen Cas. Annette doesn't mention that he's been there at all, or that he said he was leaving to do something else. Dean hopes that back at his cabin and he's sleeping.

Cas looked too exhausted to properly function when Dean saw him last.

"I never thought I'd say it, but I almost miss that too-clean chemical smell of hospitals," Dean says.

Annette glances over at him. He knows that he's been a pain in the ass lately, but she doesn't seem to hold it against him since she says, "I miss the technology. Doctors used to be able to tell people what their chance at living was, and now we're back to the point where even the smallest ailment or injury can turn into a death sentence."

"Yeah," Dean says. "I know what you mean. I'm not a fan of playing this waiting game bullshit."

Their quiet conversation comes to an end, and Dean leaves without a goodbye. Sam doesn't seem like he'll be waking up soon. Even if he did, he's unlikely to speak just yet. Not so soon.

Maybe not ever.

Dean walks back to his cabin, realizing that the thought of Sam never talking again leaves a simultaneously foreign and familiar ache in his chest.

* * *

He sits on the edge of his bed, the wooden box he keeps beneath it pulled out and held on his lap. He doesn't open it; he knows the contents of it like the back of his hand. With mindless motions, he runs his hand over the top of it, from one side to the other and back again.

This, in his hands, is the one material possession that contains the remnants of his past.

For so long, he was content to keep it under his bed and out of his mind, but now he can't stop bringing it out.

He shouldn't be leading supply runs or anything else in the village. Not like this. Not while he's so distracted by his ghosts.

That's what got Ryan killed, after all.

His death, of course, is not the first they've dealt with, but it was avoidable. It only happened because Dean couldn't stay focused.

It's a little more personal than the other deaths.

He should've been the one to pay for his own distraction, not Ryan. He should be the one in the fresh grave outside the village's fence.

Then, he wouldn't have to face the decision of how he wants to handle Sam. Although, if Sam never recovers to the point that he can survive outside of the infirmary and with less supervision, he figures he doesn't have to handle Sam. He can let someone else do it.

He can always let someone else do it.

It's so much easier to hate and hold onto negativity, whether Sam deserves it or not. It's easier to keep this grudge against him than it is to try forgiving or understanding.

He sets the box on the ground again and kicks it beneath his bed. Putting the amulet on is too much of a sign of forgiveness, and he's not ready to go that far yet. He's having a hard enough time going to Sam's room in the infirmary without being nagged to do so.

At least, he's told Sam exactly how he views the relationship between them. He won't give Sam false hope as to what they are or what they could be, if anything.

Honesty is what they need between them to function at any level, even if it's just as acquaintances. Hell, if Sam decides that he wants to leave when he recovers enough to walk ( _if_ he recovers enough to walk), Dean won't stop him.

Trying to keep Sam on a tight leash never works. Trying to let Sam have the freedom to make his own choices never works.

Dean has no idea what _does_ work, and he stopped caring about figuring it out years ago.

Maybe he should go back to Chuck's cabin. Maybe he should try to force Chuck to answer his questions.

What the hell did he mean by Sam feeling like he had no other choice than to give in and let Lucifer take control of his body?

When he thinks back to his memories of Sam _before_ Hell and angels, there's nothing there that makes him believe that Sam would be capable of intentionally choosing to end the world as they knew it for a worse world. There's a rift in his beliefs, and Chuck's words are making that rift larger.

He spent so long creating his convictions for the sake of being able to shut down his emotions and live day-by-day. He had to be able to keep himself focused so that he could keep the villagers alive.

Now, those convictions are being shaken. Some of them are starting to crumble, and he wants to hold on. He wants to stick with the story he told himself to make it all easier.

He knows, though, that eventually he'll have to face the truth. Whatever that truth may be.

* * *

He feels lost for the first time walking the paths of the village. For so long, he's belonged there. He's been their leader with the illusion of having all the answers.

Now, he's feels like that four-year-old who's just lost his mother and the only life he's known. He remembers fragments of that night. Heat. Smoke. Fear. Having a swaddled Sam shoved into his arms and being told to go outside as fast as he could.

He's back to that point in his life, not knowing what to do or what comes next. The only future he sees is full of darkness, and he wraps himself in silence.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean turns around and faces Rooster, a villager that he doesn't see often at all. Rooster keeps to himself for the most part, and Dean doesn't even know where his nickname came from, only that it stuck.

"Clearing my head," Dean says. "Or trying to."

Rooster has a thick accent that Dean can't quite place and hair that's mostly grey these days. In a way, he reminds Dean of Ash. He's sitting on a beat-up chair on the porch of his cabin, and Dean didn't even realize he'd wandered to this edge of the village. This is the area for those who prefer to keep to themselves mostly, but Dean's seen them gather now and again. They've made their own community within the village, and that's a good sign, Dean thinks. That's normal. It's a part of a normal society.

"You want somethin' that'll help you forget your problems for a bit?" he asks.

"Something like what?"

"You don't think I spend my days sitting around doing nothing, do you?" Rooster asks. "I used to mess around with making moonshine."

"No shit?" Dean asks.

This might be the best news he's heard in a long time. Rooster making moonshine means that he can have a steady supply. Hell, if Rooster is willing to be a moonshiner full-time, Dean is willing to go out and try to find him anything he'll need.

"Yeah," Rooster says. "I found some jars to store it in. It ain't the best, but it's better than nothing, am I right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'll take anything over nothing."

Dean follows Rooster as he stands up and enters his cabin. It's cleaner on the inside than Dean expected, but most of it has been converted for the sake of making moonshine.

For so long, Dean worried about running out of alcohol. He rationed anything he found. Not once had it occurred to him that one of the villagers might know a thing or two about making some.

Some hobbies from before the Apocalypse are really paying off now, and this one might be Dean's favorite.

"I got some help with growing the ingredients from the people who know how to garden," Rooster says. "Pretty crazy, the thing you take for granted before the world ends."

"Tell me about it."

Rooster hands him a jar that's half full of liquid so clear, it looks like water.

Dean unscrews the lid and drinks a mouthful. It's… not great. Like Rooster warned him, but it has a kick to it and the burn of alcohol he's been longing for.

Rooster must see that he's not a fan, because he grins and says, "Yeah, takes a bit of getting used to."

He wants the kind of alcohol that makes him forget his own name. The kind that's strong enough to make the paint peel off of a car. What Rooster made comes pretty close.

"Hell, I'd give other alcoholic drinks a shot, but I wouldn't know how," Rooster says.

"And that's always the problem, isn't it? Not knowing how to recreate the things you took for granted," Dean says.

"You got that right, Dean."

"Maybe we'll figure it out someday."

Dean hands the jar back to Rooster, who raises it a bit before taking a drink himself.

"I'll drink to that," he says.

When Dean turns to leave and Rooster offers to let him take a jar with him, he accepts. It might not be the best, but it might help cloud his mind a bit.

* * *

He finds his way back to Sam's room in the infirmary. He doesn't go there consciously. No, he walks and ends up there, only realizing where he's gone when he's standing in the doorway. There's a force he can't understand pulling him back again and again.

Sam is propped up on pillows, and his left eye widens at the sight of Dean. Yeah, Dean doesn't blame him for being surprised. He surprises himself every time he ends up there.

And he's a little surprised to see Sam in a position that isn't lying down.

David glances over his shoulder and waves Dean into the room.

"He's been shifting more and making small movements, and he said he wanted to sit up for a bit. Sick of lying around, I guess," David says.

"Wait, what? He _said_ that he wanted to sit up?"

He turns his attention back to Sam, and Sam lowers his head just barely. If Sam can speak, then…

If Sam can speak, Dean can finally get answers. With that being a possibility, Dean's not sure he _wants_ the answers.

"Not quite," David says. "We've made a little bit of progress with communication, but not like that. More like one blink for 'yes' and two blinks for 'no'."

"Oh," Dean says.

His hopes are crushed, and he has some mixed feelings about it. But maybe he can work with that blinking system.

"You think you could give us some time?" Dean asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," David says. "I've got Lily in one of the other rooms. She's caught some sort of bug, but it doesn't look like anything serious. I'll be with her if you need me."

Dean nods, and David leaves.

Sam still won't look at him, even as Dean moves closer.

"I talked to Chuck earlier," Dean says. "I asked him if he saw anything about, well, you."

That gets Sam's attention, and he slowly drags his focus to Dean.

"We're going to use that blinking system, got it?"

Sam blinks.

"Great," Dean says. "Remember, be honest this time. We're not building new webs of lies here."

Sam blinks again.

"Chuck said that you said 'yes' because you felt like you didn't have a choice. Is that true?"

One blink.

"There's _always_ a choice."

Two blinks.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Dean asks.

He knows that his anger is probably irrational, but he can't help himself. Though, he should probably tone down his volume considering that David is still in the building, and Lily is there somewhere, too. She scares easily. Loud noises. Sudden movements.

She's just a kid.

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and Sam hasn't responded to his last question. The closest thing he got to a response was a flinch.

"I'm not trying to yell," Dean says. "I just… I don't understand. I have so many questions, but Chuck won't answer me. You _can't_ answer me. I just want to know why."

He wants to know so he can decide where to go from here. Chuck is so insistent that Sam didn't have a choice, and what would that mean for the grudge that Dean's been holding onto? How much of his preconceived story for how the world ended is right, and how much of the narrative he's constructed will be shaken by the truth?

With jerky, slow movements, Sam reaches his arm out towards Dean.

Dean steps back.


	8. Blink Twice for 'No'

Dean turns on his heel and leaves, clutching the jar of moonshine in his hands all the way back to his cabin. Away from Sam and his outstretched arm. Away from responsibility and memory.

Although, he never seems to be able to fully escape his memories completely or permanently.

Reaching his cabin brings a relief that he can't put into words. The solitude is comforting, and there's no one there watching him. No one's there to question his choices or ask why he seems willing to leave his own brother, injured and likely traumatized, in the care of people who are strangers to him (and Cas, who used to look down on Sam because of the demon blood in his veins).

He thinks that he should go check and see what Cas is up to, but Cas is more than capable of taking care of himself these days. Besides, it's possible that he's relapsed after realizing that the angels probably still don't care about them. How are they supposed to believe otherwise when the only sign that the angels have come back at all is Cas' returning grace and Sam being in that city when he shouldn't have been in a place like that, and lived, for long in his state?

Angels never cared about humans, and they still don't. They only care about themselves. If they came back because they were worried about Lucifer tracking them down after he had his fill of Earth, then they only came back for Lucifer. They only came back for the sake of their own survival.

It makes him almost sick to think of his mother telling him that angels were watching over them, but he knows that she said those words with pure intentions. She didn't know the truth.

He sits on the ratty couch that's been in the main room of his cabin since he made it his home in the new, Croat-infested world. It's not comfortable, nor is it clean. Few things are these days, and he figures that it'll take more than a little filthiness to kill him at this point. Hell, maybe that death would be a mercy, contracting some disease from the conditions in which they live. He could stop thinking. Stop leading. Stop pretending that he knows what he's doing when he's as clueless as everyone else.

Stop everything.

He uncaps the jar of moonshine and takes a long drink from it. The burn as it flows down his throat is a welcome change in pace, and the promise of not remembering the rest of the night is even more welcoming.

" _That's one thing I've never liked about bars," Sam says, keeping his hands on his knees. "The counters and tables are always sticky."_

_He tries to pull his mouth up into a smile, but Dean sees through it the same way he sees through Sam's claims that his nightmares are getting better. As if he doesn't have shadows beneath his eyes or wake up in the middle of the night with Jess' name escaping his lips._

" _Out of everything you could choose to bitch about in a bar, that's your choice?" Dean asks. "Really? Not the overwhelming smell of cigarettes or cheap perfume? Not the abundance of people or the noise? The cougars who get a little too handsy after they've had too much to drink, courtesy of some poor sap's tab?"_

_Sam shrugs. "It's one of those things where you never know what was on the counter that made it sticky in the first place."_

" _Well, I'm pretty sure you've been elbow deep in shit that whatever was on this counter can never compare to. Man, you know how nasty hunts can get."_

" _I guess."_

_Dean's trying to figure out where they stand with each other. It's been years since they've last been on the road together, and he can't shake the guilt over the thought that maybe if he hadn't dragged Sam away for his own selfish reasons, then Jess would've lived._

_At the same time, there's a heavy dose of relief that Sam wasn't there with Jess. What if the demon still went after her? What if the bastard went after_ Sam _too? He wouldn't have been suspecting anything, and Dean wasn't sure that he could've faced off against the demon without fatal consequences._

_No, he would never be sorry for any actions that lead to Sam being safe._

_The bartender sets their drinks in front of them and moves on to other patrons. Busy nights are nice, it means he'll have less time to listen in on their conversations, and Dean isn't sure that their conversations aren't going to take turns that normal people wouldn't understand. The last thing they need is a bartender lingering around like he feels he can be of some use (if he were a woman, though, young and pretty… well, Dean wouldn't be opposed to that)._

" _You know, I never would've guessed that you'd be an Old Fashioned kind of man," Dean says. He's a man who likes his whiskey neat._

_Sam shrugs one shoulder and takes a drink. "It was Jess' favorite drink."_

" _Really?" Dean asks. He's not sure that he should say anymore, or if he should be saying anything at all. Jess is a touchy subject, and Dean refuses to ever be the one who brings her up._

_No, he'll let Sam talk about her at his own pace, if he wants to talk about her at all. He figures that it's the least he can do, especially since he can't pretend that he understands how Sam feels. He's never loved a woman the way he could see that Sam loved Jess. The way that he still loves Jess._

" _Yeah," Sam says. He laughs under his breath. "She could give a lot of guys a run for their money when it came to drinking."_

" _Would've never guessed."_

" _Neither would the guys that she bet against, until they were handing over money to her."_

" _What kind of girl did you find yourself, Sammy?" Dean asks._

_The small smile that Sam managed to pull out fades away, and Dean realizes that he's asked the wrong question, but it's too late to take the words back._

" _The perfect girl," Sam says, so quietly that Dean almost misses it._

_Sam downs the rest of his drink and signals the bartender for another one._

_Dean lets his drink sit on the counter and nurses it, watching his brother raise a glass in a silent toast to the woman he loves. One of them needs to be sober, and Dean knows that it has to be him._

Tonight, it's Dean's turn to drink his problems away.

He thinks about the wooden box beneath his bed and takes another drink. He doesn't remember why he decided to keep the objects inside it, but he supposes that he didn't want to throw out the only things he still had from his past, including family photos and his father's journal. The amulet hadn't been added to his box of mementos until years after the start of the Apocalypse.

Somewhere along the line, he gave up any faith or trust he had in Sam, and let his anger take its place. He gave up on the bond they once had, and hid the symbol of it out of sight.

He's still not ready to let go of that anger or to try finding the faith he once had in Sam.

He is ready to get drunk for the first time in far too long. He'll figure out the answers tomorrow.

* * *

For every night blissfully free of unwanted memories, there's a morning of misery, and his age isn't doing him any favors in this case. The sunlight streaming in through his windows makes his head throb even with his eyes closed.

He needs water, and probably some food, but he's so stiff that he feels the strain of his muscles when he tries to stretch out his aching body. It took only one jar of moonshine to do this to him, and he'll admit that it likely had a high alcohol content, but it would've been nothing for him a decade ago.

He misses his youth. He misses the days where he could drink and not have to worry about the next day. He misses the days where he didn't have the same burden of responsibility that he picked up with the founding of Camp Chitaqua, and he knows that he should find someone else to take up the position of leader. With how distracted he's been, he's no longer fit for the job.

He doesn't remember much of the previous night, aside from leaving Sam behind at the infirmary when he reached out for him, and then thinking of one night at a bar so long ago. Sam used to be so innocent in a world that seemed out to get him, and he did gestures as small as drinking Jess' favorite drink in memory of her that broke Dean's heart.

He looked so innocent when he reached out for Dean, begging for understanding in the only way he currently can.

Thinking makes his head hurt that much more, and he wonders if he's ended up with another concussion.

No, he knows better than that. He drags himself to his feet and goes out to find some water. If he's lucky, there will be some in one canteen or another laying around his cabin. If he's unlucky, he'll have to go outside, where the sunlight is too bright and everyone feels like they can approach him with anything they think is an issue, no matter how trivial it is.

And if he goes outside, he knows he'll end up at the infirmary again.

* * *

His head feels better after a healthy amount of water and a lot more sleeping, and he knocks on Cas' door. Since he hasn't been showing up at the infirmary, despite him showing that he cares and wants to help Sam, Dean is starting to worry that something more serious is going on. No matter how many times he tells himself that Cas fell off the wagon again and is back to stealing drugs to get high on, he can't convince himself that's the case.

He's been too serious, too dedicated to his renewed faith in life. Cas is somewhere between being the almighty Angel of the Lord that he once was and the burned out drug addict he'd become once the Apocalypse truly started. He's going through an identity crisis, and Dean knows that he should expect behavior as unusual and unpredictable as the first time Cas went through one.

Dean's going through one, too, though. Without saying a word and with barely any movement, Sam has sent them both on new paths. Cas is becoming a caregiver and protector.

Dean is…

He doesn't know.

He's not the big brother that he used to be, but he's losing the cold do-what-needs-to-be-done attitude he held as Camp Chitaqua's leader. He's visiting Sam more often at the infirmary, but he hasn't managed to be comforting in any aspect.

If anything, he's making Sam feel worse, and he doesn't exactly feel guilty for that. Maybe he should, but he's buried that inside himself with most of the other feelings he has about Sam's return.

Cas opens the door and takes Dean out of his thoughts. "Do you need something?" he asks.

"I just haven't seen you around," Dean says. "I was starting to worry that you'd fallen off the wagon."

"I wanted to try seeking revelation, or at least try to contact one of my brothers."

Cas stands to the side and lets Dean into his cabin. While Cas may have cleaned up his act, his cabin still looked like he was holding daily meditation sessions that were followed by orgies.

"And?"

Cas shakes his head. "Nothing," he says. "Either my grace has not yet returned enough for me to tap into my connection with Heaven, or the angels who've returned are not willing to speak with me."

"I'm not sure they care to help any of us, not after they left us to die by Lucifer's hand."

"I thought it might be worth a try. If only to find out what happened, and how Sam ended up alive and angel-free in a city that's a day's drive away from here," Cas says.

They fall into silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Cas never figured out the point of filling silence with small talk, and it was a remnant of a past that Dean misses more every day. A past where his biggest concerns were saving Sam instead of having to kill him like his father requested, and trying to understand the newly revealed angels.

Dean breaks the silence. "Chuck knows."

"Chuck knows what?"

"He knows what happened. He says he saw why _he_ said 'yes' to Lucifer, and how Lucifer was expelled. He says that he saw more than he would've liked."

Dean can't bring himself to say Sam's name, not yet. Saying it will make his presence too real. It will connect him to the man in the infirmary at a level he's not ready to be connected at again.

He'll have to admit that it's his brother who's hurting. His brother who's been through things that he can never understand for reasons he refuses to hear.

He remembers Sam indicating that Chuck was right when he said that Sam gave in because he felt like he didn't have another choice.

"Did he explain what happened?" Cas asks.

"No, I guess he feels like it isn't his place to explain." Dean laughs a bit. "The one time I _want_ him to share his visions. Hell, if he wanted to write it down instead, I'd read it to get my answers. He could publish it for the world to read if he wanted, as long as it means I'll know what happened."

"And without him giving the answers, the only one who can is Sam," Cas says.

"Yeah, but we don't know if he'll ever speak again. This isn't something we can figure out using only 'yes' or 'no' questions."

"Perhaps not," Cas says, "but if we ask the right questions, we can start piecing together Sam's story. At least until he's able to fill in all the details."

"I don't know, Cas. I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"You're not sure it's a good idea because you're worried about the toll it might take on Sam's mental health, and therefore his recovery, or you're not sure it's a good idea because you're worried his answers might not line up with the story you've been telling yourself for years?"

Dean doesn't answer.

"You're hurting him with how cold you're being," Cas says. "He doesn't understand this world like we do. Most vessels have no recollection of what the angel within them did while in their body."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"You never do."

"I don't, and none of you seem to get that the man in that bed in the infirmary is living proof of how many fucking mistakes I've made," Dean says, his voice rising with each word. "I promised my dad that I would save him or kill him. That was his dying wish, and I couldn't get the fuck off my high horse long enough to realize that _I_ was the one who was wrong, when I thought my dad was wrong. I thought he'd lost it. It would've been a mercy for everyone if I'd gone through with my promise."

"Dean…"

"Don't you get it, Cas?" Dean asks. "This world—every death, every injury, every broken family—this is all on me, because I couldn't do what needed to be done. This shitty world is my fault, and it's easier to shift the blame to someone else. Someone who played a big role, but he wouldn't have been able to play that role if I'd let him die at Cold Oak. I had to drag him back to Earth, and then I broke the first seal because I sent myself on the path straight to Hell."

Dean is out of breath by the time he's done speaking, and he doesn't wait to hear what Cas as to say in response. He turns around, leaves the cabin, and slams the door shut behind him.

* * *

He walks around the village, then to his cabin (where he spends a few restless hours), and, finally, he finds himself at the infirmary in the middle of the night. He leans against the door frame of Sam's room, watching his exchange with Cas in the candlelight that's just bright enough for him to see how many times Sam blinks in response to the questions Cas asks.

Neither have noticed his presence, but he was quiet when he walked in.

Sam is upright again, though less-so than before. Low enough to sleep, if he wants. High enough to feel engaged in conversations. His hair is starting to look limp and dirty, and it has to be hard washing it with his limited mobility and their limited resources at the camp.

"So, he's really gone," Cas says. "You're sure?"

One blink.

"Is he dead?"

One blink.

Cas looks amazed, and in that moment, he's more human than Dean's ever witnessed before. He's childlike in his awe, eyes wide and bright.

Sam, on the other hand, remains grim.

"But how?" Cas asks.

His question gets no response from Sam. Although, Sam does move his mouth like he wants to say something, but no sound escapes.

"Do you know how?" Cas asks. "Were you aware of what was going on at that time?"

Sam blinks once.

"Was it you? Did you find a way to kill Lucifer from within him?"

Two blinks, and Cas asks the question that Dean's thinking, "Then, who?"

Sam, of course, doesn't respond.

"I'm sorry," Cas says. "It's easy to forget sometimes that you can't speak, and I just want to know what happened. We all thought that it was a matter of time until it was over, really over, but with Lucifer gone that might not be true. Humans have rebuilt after disasters numerous times throughout history, and maybe we can do it again."

There's a short silence, then Cas continues. "Dean, too. He wants answers about everything. About you. I know he comes off as not caring, but the past years have been tough on him. On all of us. He really does still care about you, even if he hasn't been showing it."

Sam blinks twice.


	9. With Clasped Hands

Dean ducks out of the doorway and behind the wall, separating himself from Sam and Cas. Creating physical barriers as his emotional ones falter for the moment.

No. No, Sam doesn't believe that Dean cares about him anymore. That hurts more than he expected. Sam's trust is something that he's always taken for granted, and to witness that it's no longer present is jarring.

He doesn't want to hear Cas trying to reassure Sam on the other side of the wall that Dean cares. He doesn't want to listen to Cas' attempts to find some proof, because he hasn't given any sign that he cares about Sam from the second they found him.

So, he sneaks out of the infirmary as quietly as he entered, stopping to sit outside the door.

What is he supposed to do? Does he even want to try convincing Sam he cares?

_Does_ he care?

He doesn't have the answers. As he stares up at the stars in the sky, he's not sure that there are concrete answers this time. It's not about logic in this case; it's about feelings. Opinions. Memories. Bonds. Things that can't be quantified.

No one can give him a solution, he has to find it himself.

_His time is almost up. He thought that a year was long, but now that he has a matter of days left, he realizes that one year is not long at all. He tries to spend as much of his time with Sam as he can, but Sam is more determined now than ever to find a way to break his deal._

_He doesn't know how he managed to convince Sam to take it easy for a night, but sitting under the stars in an empty field on the hood of the Impala for maybe the last time is a memory that he wants to take with him._

_Sam's breath hitches on occasion. Dean doesn't say anything. It's hard on both of them, and Dean knows that it will be worse for Sam when his time is up. He knows what it feels like to have his brother die. It broke him to the point that he damned himself for just one more year with Sam alive._

_He doesn't regret his choice, but he wishes that there was a way he could make it easier on Sam. Bobby will watch out for him, but he can only do so much. He can't save Sam from himself, if it comes to that._

_He tries to think of something to say. There's so much that he wants to tell Sam—so much that he wants to make sure Sam knows—but every time he finds the words, he chokes on them._

_He wants Sam to know that he couldn't have asked for a better brother. He wants Sam to know that he wishes he could've had that life as a lawyer with Jessica as his wife, and he will never stop being sorry that he had to experience that loss. He wishes that he could've given Sam a better life, and he's sorry for that, too._

_He doesn't want to go to Hell, and he doesn't want Sam to know how scared he truly is. He doesn't want Sam to know that he sees his own eyes turn black when he looks in a mirror._

" _I'm going to get you out," Sam says._

_His breathing is unsteady, and his words more-so. But Dean hears the conviction in them. He hears the determination, and he knows that Sam is stubborn enough to try every solution, no matter how impossible, until he finds one that works._

" _I know you will, Sammy," Dean says. "All my money's riding on you."_

_As much as he wants to say that Sam will get him out, he's being realistic in believing the worst-case scenario and not getting his hopes up._

" _You don't have any money."_

" _Well, if we swing by some bars with pool tables, I can change that."_

" _I'd… rather stay out here," Sam says._

_Dean leans back, propping himself up with one hand. The stars look so much brighter out in an empty field, miles away from any semblance of civilization. It's peaceful, and he savors that, knowing 'peace' will be a foreign concept when he's in Hell._

_He's glad that Sam wants to stay out in the field. He doesn't want to leave, either. Out here, he's able to appreciate the presence of the one person who makes his life worthwhile without the noise of a bar._

" _Yeah. Me too," Dean says._

He sits there, and no shortage of memories of stargazing with Sam flood his mind. When he hears footsteps behind him, he looks over his shoulder in time to see Cas exit the infirmary.

"Dean, how long have you been out here?"

Dean shrugs. "Depends on how long it's been since you tried to say that I still care."

"You heard that?"

"Yeah," Dean says.

Cas takes a seat beside him. "What else did you hear?"

"Not much. Just that Lucifer is dead, and he wasn't the one who did it."

"Which leaves us stuck with the question of who did it, if not Sam."

Dean nods. Lucifer isn't a top priority, especially not if he's dead. He doesn't add anything, because there are so many other issues that need addressing first.

"I did try to convince him that he's wrong in believing that you don't care about him anymore," Cas says.

"That's the thing," Dean says. "I'm not sure he _is_ wrong about that."

"No matter what happens between you two, there will always be an unbreakable bond," Cas says. "I know you have a lot of mixed feelings, but I can see that you still care. I can see that you want him to recover, even if you can't see it yourself."

"No, you're wrong. All those drugs have fried your brain."

"Why else would you keep coming to the infirmary to see him?" Cas asks. "Why else would you get so angry, if it wasn't because you cared too much? Why else would you be out here after overhearing that Sam no longer believes you care?"

Dean doesn't have a response to any of Cas' questions.

* * *

He went back to his cabin to try and get some sleep, but the night proves restless. Sam's dismissal about him caring bothers him far more than it should, and he can't stop thinking about it.

It was one thing when it was only his feelings getting across, but now Sam has found a limited 'voice'. He has a way to communicate, and even he can only take so much berating before he starts believing that the words are true.

And are they true? Does he feel like Sam should be dead? Does he feel like Sam deserves to be in pain and to suffer because of his choices? Or were they just outbursts of frustration and rage?

He doesn't know. He just… doesn't know.

As much as he wants to find Rooster and ask for more moonshine, he restrains himself. The need to think his relationship with Sam over takes precedence over the want to forget everything.

His life was never supposed to be so complicated. His days are supposed to be about survival. About making it to the next day, and all the better for each person in the village who makes it to the next day with him.

Part of his anger is tied to that, he realizes. He's angry that Sam's made his life complicated when he should be worrying about survival.

He paces the length of his bedroom.

Is he angry that keeping Sam alive will be difficult considering he most likely will never regain full mobility given his injuries and burn scars? He doesn't have an answer to that. It's so difficult to sift through the mess of emotions boiling in him, and even more difficult to find their individual causes.

Does he hate Sam?

That's a… loaded question. They've both made a lot of mistakes, and Dean hates himself most hours of the day. But Sam? There were a lot of moments in the past where Dean could've made a choice that could have prevented the Apocalypse, but he didn't. That's on him. Breaking the first seal, which allowed the rest to be broken, is on him, too.

And Sam made some poor choices, too, but Sam was high on demon blood and being manipulated in multiple ways to release Lucifer from his cage.

When it comes to Sam's decision to say 'yes', Dean doesn't have the same understanding. After they went separate ways, he doesn't know what happened to Sam. He doesn't know how he ended up agreeing to be Lucifer's vessel.

There's anger about all of that in him, too, but there's a sadness with it. Sam hadn't reached out to him when he was in danger of saying 'yes', but Dean drove him away. He told him to pick a hemisphere. He said they were stronger apart.

He wonders if that's still true, that they're stronger apart.

He doesn't know.

He lies on his bed in an ungraceful flop, sinking into an old mattress and worn sheets that have gone far too long without being washed. While he's exhausted, his body refuses to give in and sleep.

_Sam's a restless sleeper. He spends most nights tossing and turning in bed, or pretending to be asleep so that Dean and John can sleep without interrupt._

_It's been this way since he learned about the supernatural world. Once he started participating in hunts, it got worse. And worse. And worse._

_He's used to being left with Sam for days at a time while John is gone on a hunt. He's used to listening to Sam's shifting throughout the night in stained bed sheets that lost their warmth long ago and are a little too stiff. He's used to the creaking bed springs and the trips to the bathroom, where he hears Sam splash water on his face and take deep breaths._

_He's used to it, but hearing Sam struggle to do something as simple as sleep is not enjoyable._

_Sam won't ask for help. He won't try to talk out problems that make him feel childish, he hasn't in years._

_Dean doesn't think less of him for not being able to sleep. They live in a world of nightmares, and Sam's a sensitive kid. Dean didn't get the chance to hold onto the idea of a normal world, but Sam did. Then, they tore that away from him and threw him into the nightmares as well._

_Sam tries really hard to be the perfect hunter and the perfect researcher, but his lack of experience impedes him, and he makes mistakes. Most likely, he doesn't want Dean to think less of him for being so bothered by the creatures they face, not when he tries so hard to be strong._

_With a sigh, Dean sits up and turns on the lamp between the beds._

_Sam looks at him with red, puffy eyes and flushed cheeks, appearing so young._

_He_ is _young, Dean reminds himself. He's still just a kid, and Dean is barely into his teen years, nearly a kid himself. They're both just kids in an unkind world._

" _Sam," Dean says, but he has no idea how to continue. How is he supposed to approach this? He never had anyone there to talk him through his fears, how is he supposed to talk someone else through theirs?_

" _Why'd you turn the light on, Dean?" Sam asks. "I just want to sleep."_

_Sam's giving him an out. He's giving him the chance to go back to pretending nothing is wrong. As tempting as it is, Dean knows that this has been going on for too long. Sam needs to be able to get decent sleep, or he's going to wear himself into the ground._

" _Yeah, but you aren't sleeping, are you? You haven't been in a while."_

_Sam looks away._

" _I hear you toss and turn all night, Sammy. I know it's not the thin pillows or the hard mattresses. Hell, I'm pretty sure neither of us even recognize the stale smell of the motel rooms we stay in anymore. It's the shit we deal with that's getting to you."_

" _I'm fine," Sam says. "It's nothing."_

" _It's not nothing, Sam. You can't keep barely sleeping."_

" _You can't fix this, Dean."_

" _I can try," Dean says. "We can leave the TV on for some light or background noise and see if it helps."_

" _No, it's fine. Just leave it, Dean," Sam says._

_He turns his back to Dean and pulls the blankets higher over his head._

_Dean turns the light off, knowing that when Sam is done talking, he's done talking. But he doesn't feel right leaving things be. Sam is not getting enough rest, and Dean doesn't want the day to come where they go on a hunt with Sam not able to stay focused._

_He gets up and lies in the other bed next to Sam, hoping that his presence is as comforting as it used to be years ago. When his nightmares couldn't hurt him after he woke up._

_Sam doesn't ask him what he's doing. In fact, Sam doesn't say a thing, and within a matter of minutes, his breathing is deep and steady. He's asleep._

_Dean grins in the darkness. There's pride in knowing that he can understand Sam without Sam having to spell out what he needs or how to help._

_And he'll keep doing what he can to show Sam that he's there for him. He won't look down on him for being afraid, because Dean's pretty damn scared himself sometimes. He wants to show Sam that they're brothers, and they always will be._

_No matter what happens._

Dean shakes his head. How naive he was as a child, to think that any problem could be solved so easily.

Yet Cas' nagging has gotten to him, and he wonders if the problems he's having with Sam right now are his own fault. No, he knows that they're his own fault. He's holding onto the negativity that's built up over the years, and he's letting it all out on Sam.

Some brother he's turned out to be.

* * *

They don't holding large-scale meetings often, but Dean gathered everyone together in the village's center because he feels this is important enough to warrant a meeting.

It's time for him to step down from the leadership he never wanted in the first place.

It's a cloudy day, and rounding everyone up in the morning is a chore that he hopes he won't have to go through again. They stand around, faces grim (when was the last time they had a reason to celebrate?) and clothes worn out and torn. It's a slow realization to think that they'll have to figure something out if they want new clothes, and they better figure out some way to manufacture clothing before they deteriorate to the point of being unwearable.

He clears his throat. "I guess I should say sorry for dragging you all here this early," he says. "At some point in the early days of Camp Chitaqua's creation, I became a sort of unintentional leader. And I've rolled with it so far, but it's time for me to step down from unofficial leadership.

"I'm not going into detail as to why, and I don't know how you want to choose a new leader. Honestly, I don't really care how you choose a new leader, but for what it's worth, I'd pick Beth. She's been on more supply runs than I can count. She has experience, and she doesn't pry into anyone else's business without damn good reason. She's strong, and she's competent."

She reminds him of himself, but he leaves that part out. He's not sure if it's good for him to see himself in her.

Dean takes a deep breath. There's a lot he could say, but he won't. These people have worked together for long enough to survive and support each other, maybe get to know each other (and Dean's been with most of the women, quickly learning that flings aren't as simple when he can't leave them behind to move on to a new town).

But he doesn't want them to know Sam. He doesn't want his bitterness to leak into his words and distort their views of Sam. Just because his own feelings about Sam are mixed, not everyone else's feelings need to be as mixed.

"That's all," he says.

He walks away from the crowd, mantle of leadership no longer on his shoulders. The weight being lifted makes him feel so light, he's nearly dizzy.

Then, there's a hand on his shoulder, and Dean runs purely on instinct, grabbing the arm and turning around to face a possible attacker.

But it's only Chuck standing behind him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

"I think you're doing the right thing," Chuck says. "Believe me, Sam is going to need you. The _old_ you. He needs his brother."

"Why?" Dean asks. "What happened to him that was so bad?"

"That's something he has to tell you, but he's not going to get better alone. You have a village and friends, Dean. What does Sam have?"

"Cas?"

Chuck shakes his head. "I think that Cas is trying to find a way to earn forgiveness for the role he played in starting the Apocalypse, not truly because of Sam."

Dean stays silent.

"Think of it this way, Dean," Chuck says. "How can you expect Sam to ever tell you his side of the story with the way you've been acting?"

Dean doesn't have an answer.

* * *

It always comes back to him at the infirmary, in Sam's room. Annette and David are probably sick of him and Cas barging in, asking to be left alone with Sam. He sits on the chair beside his bed, and is too aware of how similar their positions are to the countless bedside vigils he's held over the years when Sam was sick or injured.

Chuck's words echo in his head, and they hurt because they're true. How can he expect Sam to trust him enough to tell his story, if Sam doesn't think he cares anymore?

It's going to be hard to mend the rift in their relationship, but sewing it together one stitch at a time makes it sound more manageable. So, he swallows his anger and his bitterness. He swallows his accusations. He puts aside the story that he's created to fill in his gaps of knowledge as to what happened to cause the true Apocalypse.

He has to go into this with a clean slate.

Sam's left eye cracks open, blinks, then opens wider. It doesn't take him long to notice Dean's presence and shift his focus to him.

"I'm guessing that I'm the last person you were expecting to see," Dean says.

Sam blinks once.

That stings a bit, but Dean can't say that he wasn't prepared for that answer. He's given Sam no reason to believe that he would ever be (willingly) holding a bedside vigil for him again.

"I, uh, I've said a lot," Dean says, "to you, or when you were listening, and none of it was good. This is reality, and no matter how I feel about it or what I say, I can't change that. I have to accept it."

Old Sam would've been amused over how much Dean is talking about their current situation. He might've even called him a woman or said he's getting soft.

Although, he could use a little softening. The post-apocalyptic world has hardened him to the point of being brittle, and he remembers a time where he would've taken care of Sam no matter how badly he messed up, like when he tried to help Sam detox from his demon blood high.

_It's never silent, at least not for long. Only hours have passed since they arrived at Bobby's, and pleas to be let out of the panic room have quickly deteriorated into incoherent yells. Sam's screams echo through Bobby's house, and each one creates a new crack in Dean's heart. His brother is alone in the basement, and he cries out like a dying man._

_Maybe he is dying. None of them know what detoxing from demon blood is like; they've never been in a situation like this._

_How had Sam fallen so far without Dean noticing it? Why did Sam feel the need to suck down demon blood?_

_How did things get so messed up?_

_Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get through this."_

" _You don't know that, Bobby. There's so much poison in him."_

" _Winchesters are made from tough stuff. You just have to believe in him."_

Dean believed in Sam as much as he could at the time. He did what he had to do, and he doesn't know how much that was worth since Lucifer was released in the end.

What he wouldn't give to have Bobby alive again. But he was right when he said that Winchesters are made from tough stuff, and that leads him back to the question of why Sam would say 'yes' to Lucifer?

He's stronger than that. The Sam Dean used to know was too stubborn to give in to the plans of demons and angels. At least, if he knew he was being used, and there's no way he couldn't have known Lucifer was trying to use him.

So, why?

"I shouldn't have said the things that I did," Dean says.

He doesn't say 'sorry'. He wonders if Sam is waiting for it, with the way he stares at Dean with only one eye open. Dean focuses on that one eye, finding uncertainty in it. Apprehension. Hope?

Pain.

"Are you hurting?" Dean asks.

Sam's other eye opens a fraction of the way, and he blinks.

Dean nods. He's not envious of the injuries or scars with which Sam will have to live. They inhibit his mobility, and he doesn't know if they'll have other effects. Chronic pain? Sensitivity? Susceptible to heat stroke if the burns were deep enough to destroy his sweat glands (and, he has to admit, there's no way the burns _weren't_ deep enough to destroy them)?

These are wounds for which they aren't equipped to treat.

"There isn't medicine like there used to be," Dean says. "Even when we were careful with it, we were always aware of how low the supply was getting. Some circumstances drained that supply even faster. You'll… have to manage."

Sam blinks.

Old Sam would've rolled his eyes and told Dean that, of course, he'll have to manage. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? He almost hears the hint of condescension in Sam's voice. The tone that let's Dean know just how much of an idiot Sam thinks he is.

"I know you think I don't care about you anymore," Dean says. "And no, Cas didn't tell me. I was… I was actually standing in the doorway."

Sam looks away.

"No, it's okay. I haven't given you any reason to believe otherwise. The thing is, you have this story, and I don't understand any of it. You get that, right? It's been years, and you show up out of nowhere, scarred in ways that indicate you should be dead. To top it off, you're Lucifer-free.

"And, you know, I have my own story, too. It's not like I was in a coma over the years. Things happened, and I had to act in order to survive. I had to become someone new. Someone harder and cold."

Sam looks back at Dean and blinks once.

"I guess I'm trying to say that a lot has happened to us that the other doesn't know about, and we should start there. I'll tell you my story, if you'll tell me yours when you can. We'll learn to understand each other."

And from there, if Dean doesn't like the answers he gets, he can decide his actions towards Sam without the judgment of Cas and Chuck and everyone else. They won't be able to say that he didn't try or that he doesn't know the whole story.

The left side of Sam's mouth pulls up into a half-smile, and he blinks once. Yes, he's willing to take that trade. He's willing to work on understanding Dean and where he's coming from.

Sam reaches his hand out towards Dean once again, and Dean stares at it. He stares long enough for Sam to start to withdraw it, his motions as slow as ever.

But Dean closes the distance and clasps Sam's hand.


	10. A New Home

Dean didn't realize how much he needed this physical contact until he grabbed Sam's hand. His flesh is rough and calloused, but it's warm and reminds him of a young Sammy who wasn't allowed to cross the street on his own and always preferred to hold Dean's hand instead of their father's.

He doesn't know where to start, or even what Sam wants to hear about, if anything at the moment. Dean feels drained after his tirade, and he doesn't think that he'd be able to cover everything in one sitting anyway. Too much has happened since they went their separate ways.

"It would be easier if you could just ask questions about what you wanted to know," Dean says.

Sam blinks once. Yeah, it would be, Dean fills in for him, nearly able to hear him say it.

"Did Cas, uh, tell you much?"

Two blinks. Did Cas ever tell him much?

"Did he tell you anything about the world?"

Two blinks again, but Dean isn't surprised. Cas isn't the type to talk without a reason to, unless he wants answers or has to answer questions directed to him.

"Well, welcome to Camp Chitaqua, I guess," Dean says. "A shitty place in a shitty world, but at least we haven't been overrun by Croats yet."

Sam doesn't have a response. Dean feels a little childish holding a one-sided conversation, like he's talking to an imaginary friend or a stuffed animal, but he said that he was willing to try to understand Sam. This is the first part of understanding each other: understanding their world.

"You know Croats?"

One blink.

"You run into them a lot while you were… well, you know?"

One blink.

"I guess you're lucky to have immunity from it."

Dean wishes that they had someone in Camp Chitaqua who knew how to figure out why Sam is immune to the Croatoan virus. If that immunity could be replicated, they could save the remaining human population and weed out Croats more effectively with less risk.

They fall into silence, and Dean breaks it by saying, "I, uh, don't really know where to start or what to do here. You'd think that I'd have a clue after pretending I had all the answers for years, but I'm stumped."

Sam squeezes his hand, and Dean doesn't know what that means. Reassurance, maybe. That Sam's willing to give him time if he'll give Sam time. He just knows that Sam's grip is far too weak. He knows that Sam is far too vulnerable in his current state. If they have a Croat attack, he'll be helpless.

No, he can't stay in the infirmary forever. As much as he'd like for it to be protected, the only uninjured and not sick person regularly at the infirmary is David or Annette. It's not secure.

Beyond the fence they erected around the village, and the guards posted there, the village is much less safe than he would like. But this isn't an ideal world, and doing what they can doesn't mean they're doing enough.

Sam needs to be moved, and Dean needs to talk to Chuck before that. But where are they going to put him? He can't live on his own; he can barely move. At the same time, staying in the infirmary isn't doing anything for him. He doesn't have injuries that require constant care; his cuts having healed in the time since they found him.

The biggest problems are his scarred burns, his lack of mobility, and his inability to talk, and those are problems they aren't equipped to treat.

_The prognosis is grim, but the doctors have no idea. They have no fucking idea what, exactly, is sapping Sam's strength, because it's not natural._

_He really fucking hates witches. They mess around with power they don't understand, and willingly hurt innocent people for their own gain._

_The doctors offer to make Sam comfortable, and Dean knows that it's just the nice way to say that they don't think he has a chance of making it._

_So, John signs Sam out of the hospital, and Dean sets him up on a mountain of pillows on one of the motel beds. He can't even sit up on his own anymore, but he still gives them weak smiles at every turn. His pale skin blends too well into the bed sheets, and the smallest of movements leave him gasping to catch his breath._

_Dean would give his own breath if it could take away Sam's pain._

" _We're gonna get the witch who did this to you, Sammy," Dean says. "Dad's gonna hunt the bitch down and make her pay. You're gonna be fine."_

" _I know," Sam says._

_He's down to keeping his sentences as short as possible to rest his feeble lungs._

_The one thing that Dean is glad to know is that killing the witch will end the spell. She's just a human who dabbles in things she doesn't fully understand to make herself into a wanna-be shtriga by drawing on the strength of others to make herself stronger until her victims died, their bodies too weak to continue functioning._

_He refuses to let that be Sam's fate. It was bad enough when an actual shtriga almost got him (would've gotten him, without John's intervention), but to have a twisted human try to take his life in almost the same way?_

_That wasn't happening. As long as John could find her, it wouldn't happen. Dean just needs to keep Sam alive until then._

_He'd do anything to switch places with Sam._

" _You'll be just fine," Dean says. He sits next to Sam on the bed, remote in hand. "What do you feel like watching?"_

_It's a useless question, they get only a handful of channels in their motel room, but he wants Sam to have choices. He wants Sam to feel like he has a little bit of influence in this shit life for which neither of them asked._

_Sam says, "Whatever."_

_Dean nods. Sam probably has a lot of ideas as to what he'd like to watch, but he's too weak to get out more than one word. So, Dean flips through the channels, keeping an eye on Sam's reaction to each show until he finds one in which Sam seems interested._

_He sets the remote aside and slings his arm across Sam's shoulders, letting him lean against him. He doesn't want Sam to feel alone. If they face the worst-case scenario and John can't find the witch, he wants Sam to feel cared for. It's the only thing he can do for Sam at this point._

Dean's well-versed in the feeling that comes with being unable to help Sam in his times of need, but he never imagined he'd feel it again after Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer.

But here he is, holding one of Sam's hands and staring at his face, half-covered in burn scars received in ways that Dean doesn't know. Here he is, grasping the hand of someone for whom he wished he'd never sold his soul, if only to prevent the string of events that followed his trip to Hell.

The boy who faced more life-threatening situations than anyone should, whom Dean tried so hard to protect over the years, was in front of him. Sam may be grown, but Dean suspects that there's still that same purity in him. The purity he had before they went separate ways.

How has it taken him so long to realize this? How could he let the story _he_ created to fill in the blanks blind him to the point that he said terrible things and others needed to beat sense into him before he was even willing to be _civil_ near Sam?

He doesn't like the person that he's become in this post-Apocalyptic world, but he doesn't know how to be anyone else anymore.

"We should probably move you out of here," Dean says. "There's nothing David or Annette can really do for you anymore. Maybe if we had the medical technology we used to, but not these days."

Sam blinks once.

"Do you know if you'll be able to talk?" Dean asks.

Two blinks.

"Well, I mean, it's not like your tongue or your voice box cut out, right?"

Sam blinks twice again.

"So, it's just a waiting game."

One blink.

Dean didn't realize the gravity of Sam's inability to talk at first, but now he's scared that he'll never hear Sam's voice again. It isn't something that he's allowed himself to think about over the years, and he tells himself that it's because Sam being able to speak is imperative to Dean finding out the story that lead to the end of the world.

But there's more to it.

He remembers a Sam who was never afraid to speak up for himself or make his opinion heard. He remembers a Sam who stood up to their father's orders when he believed that they were wrong. A Sam who would use that soft tone of his to calm victims or grieving families.

It's strange how the story he made up and the hate behind it blocked out his memories of a softer Sam. A Sam who never wanted to hurt others, and never wanted to see others in pain.

Dean stands up and sets Sam's hand on the bed, ignoring the sudden fear and confusion that fill his eyes.

"There are some things I have to take care of," he says. "I'll be back."

As he leaves, he wonders what Sam would say if he could speak beyond answering simple questions. He wonders if Sam would have good things to say about Dean. If he's glad that they've stumbled back into each other's lives.

If he had to guess, he'd say the answer is 'no'.

* * *

He seeks out Chuck, not knowing if Cas would have the information for which he's searching. Besides, he needs to ask Chuck for a favor, even if he knows that he doesn't deserve any favors from the people who had to drill it into him that it's _Sam_ at the infirmary.

He feels pretty low about the way he's been acting now that he doesn't have leadership to occupy him. He's no longer in charge of taking care of a village worth of people. It's no longer his job to find solutions for any problems they might face. It's no longer his job to make a plan for their long-term survival, or to figure out how to start advancing as a society again.

While those are all things he will continue to worry about, late at night when his brain is too caught up in thoughts of the future to sleep, they are no longer things for which he's responsible. He doesn't have to have the answers. He doesn't have to be the one to find the answers he doesn't have.

He's just another villager at Camp Chitaqua.

It's been a few hours since his meeting that morning, where he stepped down, and a brisk walk through the paths of the village lets him know that Chuck has most likely returned to his own cabin.

He finds himself knocking at Chuck's door again, all too aware of how familiar this is becoming.

"Dean?" Chuck asks, opening the door just enough to see Dean on the other side. "I thought—I hoped—that you would be with Sam after the meeting this morning."

"I have been, but I needed to talk to you."

"About what?"

Dean stands, and waits until Chuck lets him into his cabin and shuts the door.

"I think we should move him out of the infirmary. There's nothing they can do for him at this point."

"Well, where would he go?" Chuck asks. "He won't be able to live on his own, not when he can barely move."

"I know," Dean says. "What happened after I left, by the way? Do we have a new leader at Camp Chitaqua?"

"No one disagreed with you about Beth, and she was willing to take up the role."

Dean nods. "Could you ask her to keep her eye out for a decent mattress and bedding during the next supply run? Maybe even for some sort of burn cream or lotion or something, too?"

"For Sam?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad that you're stepping up, Dean," Chuck says. "I don't know if Beth will be able to get those things, but I can ask her, at least. But why not take one of the beds from the quarantine cabin? We don't need as many as we have in there anymore. I mean, we barely even use that cabin these days."

"I guess we could do that," Dean says. He has no reason to _not_ take one of the beds from the cabin, and they already have bedding on those beds. "Where are we going to put it?"

"If we rearrange your bedroom, I think we could fit another bed in there. Then, you'll be nearby if Sam needs you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean asks.

Chuck pinches his eyebrows together in his confusion, opening his mouth and closing it a few times like a fish before he says, "I thought… You said you wanted to move Sam out of the infirmary?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he's coming to live with _me_."

Dean's not ready for that. He's not sure he can handle going back to living in such close quarters with Sam again, not when it's taken him this long to not try to verbally wound him every time they're in the same room.

"Where else would he live?" Chuck asks.

"With you. With Cas. I don't know. But… not with me. I can't take care of him, Chuck. I just can't."

"Why not?" Chuck asks. "You've taken care of him for years. I've watched both of you for years, and I've seen how much you love him."

"Things are different this time."

"They're only different because you're _making_ them different," Chuck says.

"I'm doing my best," Dean says. "But this is all insane. He was never supposed to come back, and I'm doing my best to put aside what I told myself for years to deal with that. Give me a break, Chuck."

"You wouldn't have given Sam a break without others telling you to."

"I don't want to do this right now. Just see if Beth can find something useful for old burns on the next supply run. And… don't move any beds yet."

Dean leaves without giving Chuck the chance to respond.

* * *

Dean stands in his bedroom. Chuck is right, there's enough room for two beds if they do a little rearranging. But what does that mean for his relationship with Sam? He can't even bring himself to speak Sam's name aloud, how can he give him the care he needs?

He's really not the person Sam needs. He doesn't know how to be the person Sam needs anymore.

If he tries and fails, then it'll be Sam who pays for it. Oddly enough, the weight of being Sam's caretaker is heavier than the weight of leading Camp Chitaqua.

The job he once threw himself into now scares him, and he just… can't do it.

Yet, he starts moving pieces of furniture from his bedroom. Furniture he has no reason to use, and most of it was in poor shape when he first claimed the cabin as his own, but they work with what they have.

There isn't much for him to move, and he leaves his bed in the room, but he confirms once again that Chuck was right when he said that there would be enough space for two beds.

He almost wishes that Chuck had been wrong. It would've given him a solid excuse to find somewhere else for Sam to live.

But as it is, he has no excuse to turn Sam away. He has no reason to have Sam stay somewhere else, and he knows that Cas and Chuck will make sure he never hears the end of it if he sends Sam to live with anyone other than him. Hell, maybe even David would join them, now that he knows Sam and him are brothers.

He's living the dream of many villagers: to be reunited with someone from their past. Someone they assume to be dead (but, being fair, Dean knew that Sam technically wasn't dead).

Did he ever hope for reuniting with Sam over their years apart? He can't remember ever holding onto such a hope, but it would've been very unlikely at that time. He never thought that Sam would be anything other than Lucifer's vessel after he let Lucifer in. He believed that such an event would be impossible.

Why would Lucifer let go of his vessel?

It's just another question of 'why' that Dean isn't sure will be answered. Sam can't speak. No one knows if he will _ever_ be able to speak.

He sits on the edge of his bed, looking at the newly emptied space in his room and seeing endless motel rooms shared with Sam over the years.

It feels like they're coming full circle.

* * *

Dean didn't go back to the infirmary that day, and his night was filled with dreams of Sam disappearing from his life again. Flagstaff. Stanford. Lafayette.

Sam disappeared from his life too many times, and the last time was because Dean sent him away.

There's a real fear that settles in him at the possibility that Sam will leave again, even if it's physically impossible for him to do so of his own free will while he's recovering. But it's been so many years since he felt such a raw fear over something he can't control.

He can't control who lives or dies to Croats, but he can help keep others as safe as he can.

He can't control Sam, but he can give Sam reasons to stay. Reasons to try to get as well as he can.

He's never been one to believe in a greater good or in the idea that everything happens for a reason, but what if?

What if there's a reason that Sam is back? A reason that Cas' grace started to return just in time for them to find Sam in a relatively nearby location? A reason that Cas and Chuck are trying so hard to get him to reconnect with Sam?

What do they know that Dean doesn't?

Well, they know that Sam felt like he had no choice but to let Lucifer use him, which Dean has done his best to deny. They know that Sam didn't rid himself of Lucifer, so there has to have been someone—or something—else involved.

He steps out of his cabin, and Cas is there, waiting.

"Cas," Dean says, "I can't say I expected to see you this early."

"I talked to Chuck, and then to Sam."

"Let me guess, you want to move him in with me, too?"

"Sam wants to move in with you," Cas says. "I asked him, and I'm not surprised that he still wants to live with you despite the way you've been treating him since we brought him back."

"I talked to him yesterday, and I was civil," Dean says.

"But you still don't _get it_."

"Get what?"

"You and Sam are connected in ways that transcend merely being born to the same parents. Your very souls are bound together," Cas says. "I knew it long before either of you were born. All of Heaven and Hell know this. And you know it, too, on a subconscious level. As you held onto your anger towards Sam over the years, you grew angry at yourself. When you started to hate Sam, you hated yourself."

Dean balls his hands into fists, using every bit of restraint to keep from punching Cas. He's doing his goddamn best, what can't that be good enough?

"Now, as you're starting to repair your broken relationship, you feel something inside you being repaired as well, don't you? Feelings that you've all but forgotten."

Dean doesn't have anything to say. He does feel things he hasn't in a long time, but none of that means he wants to go back to his world revolving around Sam (as much as he wants to convince himself that it doesn't already). He's afraid that going back to him and Sam living in each other's back pocket will lead to him resenting Sam again.

Maybe Sam will realize that he just isn't the person he once was. He isn't fit to take care of a human who will be so dependent upon him.

"Cas…"

"What will Sam think if you send him to live with someone else?" Cas asks.

"I don't—"

"Dean, if you want him to get better, you need to give him a reason. Do you think that he'd try for anyone else other than you?"

Dean shrugs.

"This will be good for both of you, and you won't be alone if you need help. But you need someone to take care of. You need someone who needs you, and that's Sam. It's always been Sam."

"Fine," Dean spits out. He doesn't want to admit that Cas might be right, but he also knows that he will never be left alone about this unless he agrees to it. "He can move into my cabin."

Dean just hopes that he's doing the right thing.


	11. Nighttime Brings Nightmares

If he could move Sam himself, he would've. But he can't, so he has to put up with Cas' help, and Cas' help comes with unwanted reassurances that he's doing the right thing. That this is what both Sam and Dean need, only in different ways. Some bullshit along the lines of Sam needing and Dean needing to be needed.

"It'll be easier than you think," Cas says.

"Oh, I'm sure," Dean says. "I've always wanted to be the caretaker for someone who is bedridden and unable to do as much as speak. That sounds _so_ easy."

"Maybe not, but you've always wanted to be Sam's caretaker," Cas says. "You always have taken care of him."

"I did what I had to when we were growing up, because my father needed me to be a caretaker."

"You might believe that," Cas says. "But I felt your soul when I raised you from The Pit. I know what is written upon it."

"Yeah, well, you also thought I'd be the Righteous Man who'd end the Apocalypse, and that didn't happen."

"That's true. Don't you wonder who the Righteous Man ended up being?"

"Never crossed my mind," Dean says. "Does there have to be one?"

"To defeat Lucifer, yes."

Dean looks over at Chuck, who showed up apparently for the sole reason of being moral support, considering he hasn't helped them in any way yet. "I don't suppose you want to fill that part in for us," Dean says.

Chuck shakes his head. "I told you before, it's not my story to tell."

"Right," Dean says. "Of course, it isn't."

It isn't difficult to transport one of the beds from the quarantine cabin into Dean's cabin, but the shape and nature of the bed's components make it a cumbersome task. With each step he takes, the vice around Dean's stomach tightens. He isn't ready to be a caretaker again.

Not to Sam.

Not to a Sam who is so injured that he can't do the simplest tasks. He can't tell Dean what he needs, and Dean can't read him like he once could. What is he even supposed to eat? Can he chew and swallow okay?

Food… That's another beast in the post-Apocalyptic days. With winter coming quickly, he finds himself nervous once again about whether they'll have enough food to make it through to spring or not. Hunting and fishing are great supplements most of the year, but they try to grow as much as they can and preserve it.

Somehow, they always have enough, even if they have to scrape by until spring.

But he's not in charge of that anymore. He doesn't have to check in with the dining hall and make sure they have enough, or that no one is taking excess for no reason. He doesn't have to figure out how they'll find enough food to survive, because he's not the leader anymore. It's not his job anymore.

Those are Beth's concerns now. His concern is figuring out what the fuck Sam can eat, and then getting him to eat it. Of all the things for him to forget to ask David and Annette, why did it have to be one of the most important ones?

* * *

It doesn't take long to set up Dean's bedroom for two occupants, and staring at the extra bed makes it feel like it's always been there. He can't remember what his room looked like before adding the extra bed, it's when it's occupied that it will feel different, he tells himself.

"You'll be okay," Cas says, standing next to him.

"He's right, Dean," Chuck adds in. "It'll be easier than you think, and it's the best thing for both you and Sam. Plus, it's not like there isn't help available if you need it."

Dean grunts out a non-answer, if only to get them to leave him alone. He doesn't know why he's agreed to this arrangement, but he knows that it's too late to take it back.

"Now, we just need to get Sam here," Chuck says. "I guess it is a good thing that you brought that gurney back with you when you found him."

"It was Cas who lead the way there," Dean says.

"Maybe," Cas says, "but you didn't leave him behind. You could have, but you chose not to."

It wasn't a choice. No matter what happened, he couldn't have left Sam behind.

He tells himself it's because Sam was injured and helpless. That he thought he wouldn't make it long anyway in his condition.

He tells himself it's because he wouldn't leave anyone behind if he didn't have to. If he could avoid leaving them.

But… maybe there's something more in this case. Reasons that he's not ready to think about or admit. Reasons that are more than just the desire to know what happened to lead to the end of the world as they knew it.

Dean says, "Yeah, well, let's just get this over with."

* * *

Between the three of them (well, two of them considering Chuck intends to be nothing more than moral support throughout the moving process), it isn't tough to get Sam back onto the gurney. In fact, it's easier than Dean thinks it should be. Is Sam thinner than he was when they first brought him back?

He has to be, if Dean feels like he could lift Sam on his own if need be. Yet, it shouldn't be surprising to him. There isn't exactly an abundance of foods that Sam can eat to put some meat back on his bones.

The hardest part of moving seems to be its toll on Sam. Last time, Sam was too out of it to know what was going on around him. Sam was at a point where Dean wondered if he would ever wake up.

This time, he isn't. He doesn't make sounds, but Dean can see the lines of pain in his face as they shift him around. He can see Sam struggling to control his breathing.

"It'll be over in a second," Dean says.

Those are the only comforting words he can find to offer Sam, despite comforting Sam once being a specialty of his. Something that was second nature, once upon a time.

" _It's just a nightmare, Sammy," Dean says._

_Sam has his face pressed against Dean's chest, and he feels him shaking his head as his tears start to soak through the fabric. The motel room lets in an uncomfortably cold draft, but that's not the source of Sam's shivers. It's just a reminder that they're living a life that isn't meant for children their age. Or children of any age, if he thinks about it. They should be in a warm, safe home. Not a motel room with a door that doesn't properly lock and carpets that are sticky enough to make them wear shoes anytime they aren't lying in bed._

_Dean rubs circles on his back, rocking back and forth. The truth is that seeing Sam this scared always leaves him panicking as to how to fix it, but he knows that he can never let the calm, strong facade he's created slip, because the truth is that he's just as scared as Sam._

_This… this is why Dean doesn't want Sam to know about the supernatural. His nightmares are already so real—so vivid—that he can't imagine how much worse they would be if he found out how many living nightmares are out there. He can't imagine how haunted Sam's sleep might become._

" _You're okay," Dean says, his voice much steadier than he feels. "It was just a nightmare. Nothing's going to get you, not while I'm around. You hear me, Sammy? I'm not gonna let anything get you. Never."_

_Because he knows. He knows about the world that Sam is in the dark about. He knows how to keep them both safe from things that shouldn't exist._

_Sam's sobs die down into sniffles, and Dean just holds him close in the darkness, words of comfort pouring from his mouth. Long after Sam has fallen back asleep, Dean stays awake, waiting for the next nightmare to strike._

That was… a different time. It was a different Dean, and a different Sam. They couldn't go back to those days. They couldn't become those people again, whether they want to or not. That sort of innocence fled from their grasp long ago, and maybe they never really had it in the first place. Maybe it was all an illusion of innocence.

They pause for a moment once Sam is on the gurney. While his face is lined with pain, it fades as they allow him a minute to catch his breath again and rest. Seeing him like this only drives home how fragile he is these days.

And Dean can't help but think that this is just the beginning. He isn't equipped to provide the sort of care that Sam requires. Hell, no one is equipped to provide that much support, not without the medical technology they used to have.

"You ready for the trip to my cabin?" Dean asks.

Sam has a look in his eyes that Dean hasn't seen in a long, long time: his you-have-to-be-kidding-me-right-now look. Then, he blinks.

No use in putting off the inevitable, and once they're done, he can rest as much as he wants. Dean almost smiles, because it's the kind of thing he remembers Sam doing. Just getting unpleasant things over with as quickly as possible because he'll no longer have to think about it later. Rip the bandage off, don't bother trying to draw it out in hopes that it will hurt less.

"Well, this is the easy part," he says. "We're doing all the work."

And it wasn't all that tough on them, either. Pushing Sam on a gurney is fairly easy, and with Chuck and Cas on one end, and Dean on the other, they manage to get him down the stairs of the infirmary, and then up the stairs into Dean's cabin once they arrive.

Then, they shuffle Sam into the bed they made up for him in Dean's bedroom. He looks like he's in just as much pain as the first time, but the transition is quicker with how much more room they have going from gurney to bed instead of from bed to gurney.

Cas and Chuck take their leave, being obvious in their intention to force Dean to rebuild some semblance of a relationship with Sam.

And he finds himself alone with Sam, no idea as to what he should do next.

He sits on the edge of his own bed, all too aware of Sam staring at him. He takes a moment to wonder what Sam would say to him if he could speak.

Would he apologize for what he did? Does he even feel bad about it?

Would he tell Dean his story, or would he feel like Dean doesn't deserve answers for being an asshole to him? Would he be ashamed and hesitant to say what happened?

But he doesn't have the time to sit and think those questions through anymore, not when Sam is there and dependent upon him in ways he hasn't been in well over two decades.

He feels like a kid again, left to care for Sam when he's barely able to take care of himself.

" _C'mon, Sammy, please stop crying," Dean says. "Please."_

_He shakes a toy in front of Sam, one that makes a rattling sound from inside its tummy, but the tears and the screaming don't stop. He tries to rock Sammy the way that he remembers Mom used to, but that doesn't help either, and Dean's nearly close to tears himself. He's not old enough to understand much about the world, but he's old enough to know that this situation is wrong. He's never the one to be left alone with Sam. He_ shouldn't _be left alone with Sam, because he doesn't understand what he needs._

" _Please, Sammy. I don't know what to do."_

_Dad is supposed to be there, but he shoved Sam into Dean's arms and said he'd be right back. He said that it was important and that he had to go, but Dean needs him_ now. _Isn't that important? Isn't that_ more _important?_

_Instead, he's alone and on the verge of being driven insane by the wailing of an inconsolable Sam, because he has no idea what Sam needs from him._

_He sits on the bed and keeps rocking Sam, reaching for one of the soft blankets they picked up after everything that was in his nursery burned. He fumbles with it, trying to wrap it around Sam without dropping Sam in the process._

_After he's haphazardly wrapped up, Sam's sobs die down into hiccups._

" _You were just cold, weren't you?" Dean asks._

_He should've thought of that earlier. They're well into winter now, and motel rooms aren't known for their warmth._

_As Sam starts making small noises and saying half-words, too sleepy to form full words, Dean lets out a sob of relief. He did it. He figured out what Sam needed from him, and he got Sam to stop crying._

_He did it on his own._

" _I'm right here, Sammy," he says. "I'm always gonna be right here."_

_Sam falls asleep in his arms, and as tired as Dean is, he refuses to sleep until their dad comes home._

"I, uh, I'm kind of at a loss here," Dean says. "I really haven't taken care of anyone in a long time, and I don't even know what you can eat."

Sam continues staring, but doesn't seem to have any other response.

"I talked to David and Annette a bit before bringing you here, but it's one thing to hear what to do, and another thing to really _do_ it."

Sam blinks once, but Dean thinks that it's more of a placating response. Everyone knows how much more difficult things are in practice as opposed to in theory.

Dean nods a few times, more to himself than at Sam.

Then, he rests his head in his hands, his elbows propping up his arms on his knees. He takes one deep breath, and another.

He really has no idea where to go from here, and he can't run away this time. He can't run and leave Sam in the care of someone else, because there is no one else there to care for him.

He's the only one there.

* * *

Dean finds himself awake in the middle of the night. He tried to sleep, but Sam's presence so nearby won't let him. He can't shake the thought that, if he falls asleep, he might wake up to a dead Sam because he needed something in the middle of the night and had no way to get it or wake up Dean to get it.

For someone practically immobile, Sam is surprisingly restless in his sleep. He moves enough to rustle the sheets.

For someone who doesn't make a sound when he's awake, Sam makes plenty of sound in his sleep. Moans and groans from deep within his throat. While they're unsettling, they let Dean know that Sam has the ability to make sound.

So, why the hell is he apparently incapable of making sound consciously?

Maybe it's a good thing that he's around Sam so much now, but he's finding more questions than answers, and isn't that always the case?

He runs his hands over his face and rolls over, telling himself that it's for the sake of finding a more comfortable position. Being able to see Sam has nothing to do with it.

He watches Sam toss his head from one side to the other, then push it back into his pillow while his chest rises. His breaths come in short, choked off gasps.

After a minute of witnessing Sam writhe in pain stemming from his nightmares (which, if he's being honest, are worse than he remembers), he drags himself out of bed. He hunts through the mess of his cabin until he finds a canteen with some water still in it (making a mental note to go and refill them in the morning) and a rag that isn't too dirty (and yes, he should probably take the time to do some washing, but washboards are a pain in the ass and the river is freaking cold).

He lights a few of the candles in his bedroom, Sam still lost in nightmares and oblivious to Dean's movement around him. It's just another reminder that this isn't the same Sam he used to know. The old Sam would've been up and alert at the slightest change around him, like a hunter should.

This Sam is helpless and vulnerable, not safe from even his own mind. How did he get this way? What happened during the years they've spent apart?

He shakes Sam's left shoulder, the unburnt one, and his left eye snaps open. The right one opens slower, and never fully.

Dean removes his hand. "You were having a nightmare."

Sam blinks once. Yes, he was having a nightmare. Thanks for noticing, Dean.

Dean splashes some water from the canteen onto the rag and wipes Sam's face with it, being careful that he doesn't apply too much pressure to the burn scars (and he notes that there doesn't seem to be sweat on the right side, unlike the left side). Sam watches him, and it hurts Dean to be able to read the surprise and confusion in his eyes.

He wasn't kidding when he said that he doesn't believe Dean cares about him anymore, but why would he say he _wants_ to live with Dean instead of someone else if that's the case?

"You actually made sounds while you slept. Just, like, groans and whatever, but maybe that means you'll be able to talk someday."

Sam doesn't have a response to that.

It doesn't take long to wipe Sam's face with the rag, but Dean lingers at the task, a sense of nostalgia encompassing him. It's almost difficult to remember why he's been so cold to Sam since they found him when he looks so much like the lost, hurting child Dean raised. When he looks so much like a young, feverish Sam who's home sick from school, sweating and shivering at the same time.

"Do you have nightmares every night?"

Sam blinks twice, and Dean finds that there's a large amount of unexpected relief that his brother isn't plagued this badly _every_ night.

"Most nights?"

Sam blinks once. Not every night, but most nights.

Dean tosses the canteen and rag to the side; it's not like his cabin is the pinnacle of organization anyway. It's the end of the world, who the fuck cares if his things are in order or not?

"You, uh, plan on trying to go back to sleep?"

Sam blinks twice, but what else can he really do in his current state? It's not like Dean can prop him in front of a TV while he rides out an illness like he could when they were kids. Hell, he can't even have a radio playing because there aren't any stations broadcasting. At least, there aren't any nearby stations broadcasting.

He could read to Sam, but that doesn't sound like it would be a great replacement. He isn't like Sam. He doesn't have the patience to read something for the sake of reading, not researching.

There's not much entertainment for Sam except for… except for talking to him.

Dean sits back down on the edge of his own bed, all too aware of Sam watching him. He leaves the candles lit, letting them illuminate the room with their soft glow.

"You know, usually my room only looks this nice when I want to impress a woman," Dean says. He smirks for only a second, the lighthearted joke falling flat even for his taste. "But I'm really not like that anymore. More important things to worry about."

Sam blinks once, and Dean misses his voice more with each non-verbal response. They might not have always been on the best terms with each other, but at least before the Apocalypse they could talk things out. Try to find some sort of understanding.

Still, he sees a lot of the Sam he remembers in the immobile Sam on the bed. He may be different in just as many days, but he isn't unrecognizable.

Dean isn't sure if that makes the situation easier, though.

"Sorry. I've never been great at the small talk thing."

Dean runs a hand down his face, then through his hair, wondering how many wrinkles he's managed to accumulate since him and Sam went their separate ways. Sam didn't age while possessed, but he didn't exactly get away unscathed.

"You mind if I just skip the small talk and ask you a bit about what happened to cause all of… _this_?"

Sam blinks twice, but Dean wonders if he would say he didn't mind even if he did. That's the kind of thing that Sam does when he feels like he's walking on thin ice with someone. He says whatever he thinks they want to hear.

"Well, you said you felt like you didn't have a choice when you said 'yes' to Lucifer. Was it a threat or something?"

One blink. A threat.

"He threatened you to allow him to possess you?"

Sam blinks once, then, after a pause, he blinks twice. Yes, but no?

"What? What does that mean? It was a threat, but he didn't threaten _you_?"

One blink.

"Then, who the hell did he threaten?"

Who could Lucifer threaten to make Sam agree to end the fucking world?

It's not a question that Sam can really answer. It requires a little more than a 'yes' or a 'no'.

But, despite that, he gets a clear answer through to Dean by reaching across the space between their beds and loosely gripping Dean's forearm with his left hand.

He didn't end the world for himself.

He ended it for Dean.


	12. A Salvageable Relationship

Dean's glad he's sitting as he feels the world tilt and spin, shifting around him while he's certain that he isn't in motion. He's going to throw up, and squeezing his eyes shut doesn't take away the feeling of being on a spinning amusement park ride. For so long he thought that… that…

And now…

He doesn't know how to process this new information from Sam.

"Me?"

Sam blinks once.

"You said 'yes' because he threatened _me_?"

Sam blinks once again.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. He stands, almost paces, then sits back down once he realizes his legs are too weak from his shock to support him.

"He, what? Threatened to kill me or something?"

Sam blinks once. Then, after a pause, he blinks twice.

"Either he did or he didn't. You can't answer with both."

He can almost imagine the face that Sam would make before this mess. The disbelieving, bitchy pout with a hint of 'you're kidding' added in.

And he blinks. Yes. Yes, Lucifer did threaten to kill Dean to make Sam crack.

"Was that… the only threat he made against me?"

Two blinks. No. No?

"It's not like he could do much worse than kill me," Dean says.

One blink.

What would be worse than killing him?

"What was he going to do? Torture me? I've already been to…"

And it clicks as Sam turns his head away.

"He was going to send me back to Hell," Dean says.

It's not a question, but Sam blinks once, not bothering to open his eyes again.

All this time, he thought Sam said 'yes' for selfish reasons or out of spite or weakness or any number of petty things. It never crossed his mind that the real reason would be selfless.

But of course, if he ever paused to think about it, he would've realized that Sam is a good person. He's the kind of person who never wanted to hurt others. He always wanted to bring home stray animals and keep them as his own, too often having to lead them to the nearest shelter and grill the workers over whether it was a kill shelter or not. He could never stand seeing someone else in pain, and it made hunting that much harder on him. The weight on his shoulders from the things they witnessed and the creatures they killed was that much heavier.

Sam didn't end the world for his own reasons. He ended it to keep Dean out of Hell. He ended it to save Dean from reliving the worst months of his life (and he still can't get those forty years out of his head). It's overwhelming to feel so…

Loved.

He's glad that Sam isn't looking at him, not when he feels tears pooling behind his eyes, bringing with them a sting he hasn't felt in years. There's too much to process, especially when so much of what he's learning goes directly against the beliefs he's drilled into his own head for years.

He takes a deep breath and bottles his emotions, shoves them back into the lead box within him to deal with later. It's easier that way. Had he not agreed (for whatever reason) to be Sam's caretaker, he could have left and taken the time to sort through this revelation on his own. But now, he's stuck.

He's stuck feeling like the scum of the earth. Like something spat out and forgotten on the side of the road. A piece of trash tossed out of the window because properly disposing of garbage is too difficult for some people.

He felt like the less-than-human _thing_ he'd been treating Sam as, and he doesn't know where to go from here. As if he ever knew where to go from the moment Cas led him to an unconscious Sam in a town in which he had no reason to be.

"I…"

Dean doesn't know what to say, and Sam doesn't bother looking at him.

* * *

"Chamomile has been used for centuries as a medicinal herb. It was used as a relaxant and to treat digestive upset. Before modern medicine, we had to rely on nature to take care of our ailments, and it's amazing how capable nature can be in helping us. And now, it's more important than ever that we understand the healing properties of plants, because it might be all we have."

"Fascinating," Dean says.

It isn't often that he has to go and interact with the gardeners in the village, even if they are primarily responsible for providing a reasonable amount of food for the village (more like farmers than gardeners these days).

However, one of the gentlemen who took to gardening after retirement was once a history professor at whatever university (Dean can't remember the name, but he can't say he paid much attention to it in the first place). Courtesy of Dean's luck, that man is always the first person he runs into when he ventures this way.

He can really go without the history lesson.

"Quite," the man says, not picking up on Dean's sarcasm.

Dean rolls his eyes. He can't remember the man's name, but he feels like it's something as plain and boring as the man to whom it belongs.

"It might be useful to you because of those relaxant properties."

"Great. What do I do with it?"

"I'll dry some and bring it over to your cabin. You can make some tea out of it."

Dean claps the man on the shoulder and turns to leave after saying, "Thanks."

He shoves his hands into his pockets, as if that helps keep the chill of the autumn air away. Guilt leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, especially once he thinks back to the way he's been treating Sam. All because he thought that the world they live in was due to Sam making selfish choices.

They weren't selfish. They were for Dean. This wasteland… it's his fault that they have to live in it, not Sam's.

And Dean's been throwing that back into his face without realizing the truth.

There have been a lot of times where he's missed the availability of alcohol in the post-Apocalypse world, and this is one of them. Still, he keeps his path from veering towards Rooster and his moonshine. He has responsibilities that require sobriety.

He will never be able to take back the things he's said to Sam, and he struggles to wrap his head around the fact that it was threats towards Dean that broke him. But he can do small things. He can start fixing everything broken between them _somewhere_. There has to be _something_ salvageable onto which they can grasp.

Well, Sam has already shown he wants some semblance of family back. It's Dean who's struggling. It's Dean who's keeping Sam an arm's length away. No, emotionally, he's keeping Sam a football field's length away. Several football fields.

The chamomile is a start, he thinks. A possible remedy for Sam's nightmares. A way to help calm him.

But will tea be enough to keep away nightmares of a sort that Dean can only imagine? Lucifer is not known for kindness. If he stooped to threatening to toss Dean back into Hell, what tactics did he exhaust beforehand?

It's not something that he wants to think about, but once the thought plants itself in his mind, he can't shake it.

* * *

"Thanks for staying with him, Cas," Dean says.

Sam is right there, and they're talking about him like he's not there at all. Young Sam hated that.

" _You're sure your father can't be here instead?" the principal asks._

_Dean's used to sitting in the principal's office, but he isn't used to Sam being in the chair beside him. Hell, he's graduated, so he thought that would be the end of dealing with annoyed adults. Yet, here he is._

" _I told you, he's on a business trip. Besides, I'm Sam's legal guardian," Dean says._

_The principal sighs, and Dean thinks that he's being melodramatic. It isn't like sighing is going to make their dad magically appear, and it's not like their dad would care any more about whatever the issue is than Dean will._

" _Very well. I asked you here today because one of Sam's assignments contained some very disturbing material."_

_Dean glances at Sam. Disturbing material? Their entire lives have been shit shows, but Sam knows better than to draw attention to himself by letting it slip into his work._

" _Like what?"_

_The principal hands several papers stapled together across the desk to Dean, and Dean glances over the words written on them, recognizing Sam's penmanship immediately._

" _Kids have overactive imaginations," Dean says. Sam's written out one hunt in explicit detail, and Dean feels like he's reliving it as he reads. While his brother might have some talent in the English area, what the fuck was he thinking to write about a hunt?_

" _Not like this."_

" _I can explain, Dean," Sam says. "I'm sitting right here."_

_Dean fights to avoid rolling his eyes. Sam's voice is full of bitchiness and frustration, the same tone that Dean hears too often when John is explaining the details of a hunt, but Sam found research that contradicts what John found. Research that John doesn't want to hear because it ruins his plan. It means they have to waste more time._

" _Fine. Explain it, Sammy."_

" _It was a creative writing assignment," Sam says, enunciating each word to an unnecessary extent. "Miss Bowers told us to write outside of our comfort zone."_

_Dean looks back at the principal, and sees the truth of Sam's words as his face turns red. As if he would've doubted Sam's words in the first place._

" _I still believe that this material is extreme and warrants further evaluation," the principal says._

" _Well, I believe that you're wasting our time."_

_Dean pulls Sam up by his upper arm and leads him out of the principal's office, and ultimately out of the school._

The thought almost draws a smile to Dean's lips, but the knowledge that Sam is so different from that child who used to cry out to be acknowledged, to be heard, keeps it back.

Does Sam still care that he's being talked about as though he isn't there? Is his mind just as intact as it was when they went their separate ways, or has it been as damaged as his body?

That idea scares Dean more than he expected. Sam's freaky brain frustrated and irritated him on more than one occasion, but it saved his and his father's lives countless times.

"I'm happy to help," Cas says. "I'm glad that Sam seems to be doing well."

Yeah, he's doing… well. Other than his violent nightmares, mobility impairing injuries, and continued lack of speech. Not to mention who knows what Lucifer did to him or what he witnessed while possessed. Add in the fact that Dean has, without doubt, made him feel like the world's biggest piece of shit for ending the world, when he did it to save him from being thrown back into Hell, and they've created a combination that can never be described as 'doing well'.

He's breathing. He's aware. He's responsive. Right now, that's probably the most they can ask for.

Yet, he doesn't want to tell Cas how bad things really are. A week ago, he wouldn't have given it a second thought and would list off everything that has been going wrong with Sam there, awake and listening. But now, he can't bring himself to do that. He never thought that Sam would survive long once they brought him back to Camp Chitaqua, much less that Dean would find himself slipping into old habits and feelings that he thought died inside of him years ago.

"There's still a long way to go," Dean says.

"Of course. Recovering from being possessed by Lucifer is no easy task," Cas says. "I'm actually impressed that Sam is as coherent as he is. A lesser man would be locked within himself to the point that he would never regain any semblance of recovery."

Dean nods. He gets it. He gets that this isn't easy on Sam. It's far from easy on him as well.

Cas puts his hand on Dean's shoulder for a moment before he leaves, but neither of them have anything more to say.

And Dean finds himself alone with Sam, which is so often the case now.

Dean stands and fidgets for a moment or two before he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, all too aware that Sam is watching him. Sam is always watching him when he's in the same room.

Dean runs one hand down his face, wishing that it was enough to wipe away the bone-deep weariness he felt.

"I think I found something that might help with the nightmares. One of the villagers is going to dry some chamomile for tea that you can drink. It's relaxing, I guess."

Sam blinks once. Yes, chamomile is a relaxant.

"You'd get along with the guy, I think. He's a wealth of knowledge that wasn't useful until the world ended," Dean says.

Sam's mouth twists into a pathetic half-smile that looks like it takes far too much effort for him, and Dean's heart twists at the sight of it. He remembers when Sam was strong and independent.

This feels like an insult to those memories. How could they have fallen so far?

"I don't have it right now, but I'll have some soon."

Dean doesn't remember the last time he felt this inept. He's not able to comfort Sam like the old days, and he's not sure how much that would help. He's not able to fix the things that are wrong with Sam, because the things that are wrong with him are beyond fixing.

"I'm sorry," Dean says.

Sam blinks once, but Dean doesn't know what he means by it, and he doesn't ask.

To be fair, Dean doesn't know what he's apologizing for. Nothing? Everything? That Sam is there, or that Sam is in a state that can't be easily fixed with their lack of modern medical technology? That Dean isn't able to be the brother he once was? The list is endless, and it makes his head throb just thinking about it.

Dean bows his head, resting it in his hands, and says again, "I'm sorry."

* * *

The night proves to be restless once again, and Dean finds that the noises—the strangled, tortured noises—that come from Sam disturb him the most. Sam's always had nightmares, just not like this. Never this bad.

He gets up and shakes Sam's left shoulder until he wakes up.

Sam's eyes open as wide as they can, and he looks around in a panic until he realizes where he is. Until he realizes that he's no longer in the place his mind transports him to in his sleep.

"You were having a nightmare," Dean says.

Sam blinks once, but it's something they both know. Why bother trying to deny it?

Dean lights some of the candles in the room. Neither of them are going to be sleeping again that night. The sounds that Sam made echo in his head, and he imagines that the events Sam was reliving in his dreams haven't faded from his mind yet either.

Dean takes a deep breath. Now probably isn't the best time to bring it up, but he still says, "You make noises while you sleep."

The way Sam furrows his brow and the way his eyes narrow remind him so much of the Sam he used to know, even if the expression is a little off given the limitations of movement imposed upon him by his scarring. The soft play of light in the room gives his confusion a haunted hue, like the idea of making sounds scares him. The message is clear, though. He has no idea that he makes sounds in his sleep.

"Yeah, I was surprised, too."

It's like riding a bike, reading Sam's body language. Dean kept creating Sam as a stranger in his own mind to make it easier to get up every morning and face the mess of the world, but none of that is true. None of the stories he told himself for years were true. Sam hasn't changed, not really.

Seeing the remnants of the Sam he gave up his own childhood to raise hurts. It pushes him to the edge of breaking, and it's only his willpower that keeps him together. Sam doesn't need a broken man. He's broken enough for the both of them.

So, Dean shoves his nostalgia, anger, guilt, sorrow, and regret into that lead box within himself. The one that's close to overflowing. He locks it and tells himself that he'll deal with it later, knowing how unlikely that is to happen.

"Do you think… Do you think that you—I don't know—are stopping yourself while awake? I mean, if you can make sounds while sleeping, then you should be able to make sounds while awake. It only makes sense."

Sam doesn't respond in any meaningful way, but it isn't something that a 'yes' or a 'no' is sufficient enough for.

"You'd think that David or Annette would've heard you or at least let me know that you could make sounds, even if it was only while you slept."

Sam blinks, but Dean is fairly certain that it isn't as a response, or that it's more for the sake of placating Dean.

"I'll talk to them tomorrow about it," Dean says. "See if they have any ideas or theories."

Sam blinks once. Yes, do that in the morning. Figure it out.

"We'll get you fixed up somehow," Dean says.

Sam almost manages to pull out a genuine smile. One that doesn't look so, so broken.

* * *

"Well, he didn't make sounds in his sleep while he was here," David says. He's mopping the floor of one of the infirmary's rooms, having told Dean that one of the cooks had a bit of an accident and left a trail of blood that he wishes he could properly clean and sanitize, but he just doesn't have the tools to do so anymore. "At least, not that either of us heard."

"Okay, what does that mean?" Dean asks. "It's a new thing?"

He has Cas with Sam, and he knows that Cas is capable of taking care of him. He stayed with Sam in the infirmary when Dean was unwilling to be there. That just isn't enough to quell the anxiety pooling in his stomach. The itch beneath his skin that tells him to get back to Sam. That tells him he has to be there for him.

"I don't know. Maybe it's the change of setting or his body healing in its own way. Maybe the lack of sound while he's awake is selective mutism or a psychosomatic disorder."

"A what?"

"Basically, his mind might be making him mute, despite there being no physical reason for it."

"I thought you were just a paramedic. How do you know all this shit?" Dean asks.

David smiles a bit, but it quickly fades. "I dreamed about being a doctor for a long time. Read everything remotely medical that I could get my hands on. I just… never got the chance to go through with it, you know? Life always had other plans, and now here we are."

"Yeah, I get that," Dean says. "Believe me, I really do."

"What was the dream of yours that got crushed?" David asks.

Dean almost doesn't answer, but he feels an obligation to. Only because it's David, and he's helped take care of Sam so much since they brought him back to the village.

"I just wanted my family."

"Well, you have your brother," David says. "That's more than some of the others here. Finding someone they lost would be their _current_ dream."

"I know," Dean says.

But he can't explain the situation in any way that David would understand. He can't say how it was him and Sam who crushed his dream of being a doctor, along with the dreams of so many others. He can't say that every death to a Croat is on their shoulders.

He can't say that none of this would've happened if he hadn't uprooted Sam from his college life. If he hadn't brought Sam back from the dead after all his talk about how the dead should stay dead. If he hadn't broken after thirty years of being tortured in Hell while his dad was able to withstand over one hundred years of torture without breaking.

As strong as he tries to be, he often feels like the weakest link of his family. He knows that he relies on them more than they rely on him (although, that may no longer be the case with Sam's current state). All he ever wanted was his family, hunting, and the open road. He never meant to lead them down this path. Who would purposely try to start the Apocalypse?

And to find out that it was for his sake that Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer? To find out that Sam allowed himself to be possessed by The Devil just to keep him safe, and he blamed Sam for ending the world and acted like a complete ass?

If he could do it all again…

He doesn't say goodbye to David. He turns and leaves without a word, and David lets him.

* * *

"It might just be in your head," Dean says. "Like, you're stopping yourself from making noise."

He waits until Cas has left to bring it up. He's not sure that it's something Sam wants the world to know. Even if it is just Cas, who already knows the worst parts of their story.

Sam blinks twice.

"I mean, if it's bad enough that you physically can't make sounds when conscious, then of course you aren't going to believe it's just in your head," Dean says. "It feels real, doesn't it?"

Sam blinks once.

"And it's gonna be hard," Dean says. "It's so hard to fight your own mind and tell yourself that something isn't real when it _feels_ real."

_He spends most of his nights staring at himself in the mirror instead of sleeping. Half the time, he sees black eyes staring at him. The other half, he sees a broken man. A man who still feels tendrils of hellfire licking at him, leaving scorched trails in their path. He's so accustomed to burning that alcohol doesn't faze him in the slightest anymore. He'd drink himself to death if he hadn't been able to track down Sam._

_Sam moved on without him, and he can't show just how broken is time in Hell left him. He can't show Sam how much he needs his presence right now, if only to remind him that the nightmares aren't real. That he isn't still in Hell._

_He needs Sam to remind him he's human, not a demon, during hunts when he has the urge to be a little more brutal than necessary with the creature they're hunting._

_He's not the same man he used to be, but he's trying to function. He's trying to survive, because that feels like all he can do some days. Most days._

"But we can fix this," Dean says. "We can find a way and work through it, because we've always found a way."

Sam blinks twice, and Dean can almost hear him saying that he can't do it. That it's too much, and maybe it's time to just let it go. He's done fighting. He wanted to be done fighting when he was fourteen and each kill took away another notch of normalcy.

"Hey, you can't give up now. Not after everything," Dean says. "And I'm here now. I'm gonna help you, Sam."

He doesn't understand why Sam looks at him like _that_. Like he's grown a second head. Like Sam's on the verge of breaking down into tears. Then, it dawns on him.

For the first time since he's found Sam, he's said his name out loud.


	13. Us Against the World

He realizes how long it's been since he's said Sam's name. It feels foreign on his tongue, and that's not a good thing. That's not how it's supposed to be. None of this is how it's supposed to be. They should be hopping from motel room to motel room, hunting creatures and hitting on local women (in Dean's case, at least), not struggling to survive in a world where all the odds are against them now. A world where Sam's condition would be a death sentence for most, if they didn't have someone to care for them like Dean.

Yet, despite it all, there's still a bond between them. Dean feels it now, and he can no longer ignore it or brush it off as something it's not.

Sam looks at him with wide eyes—the innocent hazel eyes full of warmth of the child Dean remembers raising—begging him without words to say it again. Say his name again, and make the truth real. Let him know that he's still Sam as long as Dean is still Dean.

"Sam," he says again, and it's difficult to keep back the emotions he's tried so hard to lock away. "Sam. You're still… you're still Sam."

Sam blinks once, almost smiles, and blinks once again. _Yes._ Yes, of course he's still Sam. Who else is he supposed to be?

"And Lucifer, he's really gone?"

One blink.

"Forever?"

One blink.

'How?' is the next question that brings itself to Dean's lip, but he purses them shut to keep the words inside his mouth. Sam can't answer that question with his limited responses, not now. Later, when he's more healed? Maybe. Dean needs some patience if he wants answers to the more complicated questions.

Dean runs one hand down his face. "I have no idea where to go from here."

Sam stares at him, and he wishes he knew which words are rattling around in that big brain of his, but that his body won't let him voice. He wants to know what led to Lucifer's demise, and if that means there's hope for the world to start returning to the way it used to be. If it's possible to finally eradicate the Croats and rebuild their broken society with caution, but not fear. He wants to know how Sam fell into a position where Lucifer could threaten him—could threaten _Dean—_ to get him to agree to be a vessel.

"I guess… we could start with fixing you, huh?"

Sam blinks once. Yeah, he'd probably like some fixing. If he's the Sam that Dean remembers, then the lack of independence has to be eating away at him inside, making his skin crawl with the itch to move. To do all the things his body once could. It's difficult to imagine the immense frustration that must come with his predicament.

"I mean, we've had some pretty nasty injuries growing up, but Dad's version of physical therapy worked well enough. It was never ideal—I know that—but it's kind of all we've got these days," Dean says. "Professionals aren't exactly being churned out by schools anymore."

Sam doesn't respond, and, after a moment, Dean realizes that he didn't really ask if that's the route Sam wants to go. He doesn't know any other routes to help him, but it should at least be his decision. Isn't that part of what got them into this mess in the first place? Trying to control each other. Trying to make decisions they had no right to make.

So, he asks, "Is that what you want to do?"

Sam blinks once.

Dean cracks a half-smile. "Yeah. Not many other options, huh?"

Two blinks. No, not many other options. That's just the world they live in now. It's the way it is, and they can't change it. They can only adapt.

"Maybe not today, though," Dean says. "I need… I need to let this all sink in."

Sam blinks once. Dean can almost hear him saying that it's fine. He can take all the time he needs, as long as he stays.

His world, for the first time in a long time, looks… brighter. The realization surprises him. The world's been so dark and grey for so long, he's forgotten that it could be anything else.

He forgot there could be _color_.

* * *

If there's one thing he's thankful for, it's the fact that he (along with some villagers) managed to construct some makeshift wood burning stoves for the cabins (or dismantle and reassemble wood burning stoves they happened upon during a supply run, and those were always a pleasant surprise in the early days). They most likely aren't safe, but they haven't had too many fires because of them (and Dean realizes that they don't exactly have a fire department that could deal with that event and minimize damage), and Dean counts that as a win. Especially given the immense usefulness of the stoves in the winter and for the small things he never gave much thought before the Apocalypse.

He never thought he'd find himself boiling water for tea, but it's been restless night after restless night, and the days weren't much better. He's spending all his time trying to find his footing with Sam once more, which is proving more difficult than he imagined. It's hard, though, trying to get to know someone who can't give more than a 'yes' or 'no' response.

It's hard trying to get to know someone towards whom he was so cruel, only to find out that the reason he ended the world was to keep him out of Hell. That's a monumental sacrifice that Sam made, and Dean wouldn't listen to it for so long. He didn't want to hear the truth and let it deconstruct his lies. He may have raised Sam, and he knows how self-sacrificial he was as a child, but he never expected everything to turn out this way. Who would?

The tea probably doesn't taste at all like what he could've bought pre-packaged in the store before everything fell apart, but he does his best with what he has, and he hopes that it's enough. There's no sugar, and he's not sure Sam is the type for honey in his tea (a sweetener that, thankfully, a fair number of villagers know how to make).

He fills a cup with some hot water and a tea infuser (which he was lucky enough someone thought wasn't in the worst shape and was worth taking from somewhere during their supply hunts, and he makes a note to grab them if he ever comes across them) stuffed with dried chamomile. The cup burns his hands as he carries it into the bedroom, and he wishes that Sam could tell him simple things, like how long to leave the infuser in and maybe the history of tea drinking as a remedy. He seems like the type to drink tea, especially during his time at Stanford. And if he didn't drink it, then maybe Jess did?

He never asked about her, and he's not sure he'll ever find an appropriate time for it now. At first, he didn't want to make the loss harder on Sam than it already was (and he had a lot more to worry about than Sam's college days, which he didn't care to know about at the time, if he's being honest). Then, too long had passed for him to bring it up even if he wanted to and he quickly forgot about that period of separation. Never fully, but he stopped giving it much thought. Sam was back at his side, and he had to worry about the ominous future they faced, not the past they left behind.

He sets the tea aside to cool and stands for a moment, wanting to do something other than sit on the edge of the bed and stare at Sam, but that's where he ends up regardless. It's become their setting. No more motel rooms that blend together or sitting side-by-side at a bar. Now, Sam lies on the one bed, and Dean sits on the edge of the other one.

Earlier in the morning, he helped Sam do some range of motion exercises that he remembers learning from John whenever one of them had a nasty injury to a joint. It's difficult to tell if it's useful, or if it will be useful in the long-term, but Dean relearned to read pain on Sam's face to a more finite extent. He learned to spot the slightest indication of discomfort before it turns into pain, and he uses it to gauge when he goes too far.

Honestly, he feels closer to Sam after helping him with simple things like regaining his motion and making him some tea at night with the hope that he'll sleep decently for once. He remembers endless nights spent nursing a sick or hurting Sam back to health.

"Looking forward to some real sleep?" Dean asks. He's heard that the mind can convince the body in some cases, and maybe if he sounds confident this will work, it'll rub off on Sam and convince him that it will work.

Sam blinks once. Looking at the dark circles beneath his eyes and how bloodshot his scleras are, it'd be difficult to believe that he wouldn't want some much needed sleep.

"Don't try to fight it, okay?"

One blink.

"I know you've probably got all sorts of crazy shit rattling around that head of yours just waiting to come out when you go to sleep, but none of it can hurt you," Dean says. "I've been one hell of an asshole, but I'm here now. I'm here now, and I'm not leaving."

Sam looks at him with the same soulful, trusting eyes he remembers seeing time and again on a young Sam. A young Sam who looked up at him like he held all the answers in the world.

How wrong young Sam had been.

Even now, he doesn't deserve the endless admiration and faith that he sees in those eyes. He doesn't deserve the forgiveness.

Dean gets up from his spot and sits on the edge of Sam's bed.

_Dean sits on the edge of the bed, holding the thermometer in Sam's mouth. He knows that Sam isn't quite asleep, but he also knows that Sam isn't fully awake either. He's caught in a fevered haze, and Dean suspects that it's only getting worse. The sweat stains on Sam's shirt despite the way he shivers, along with the incoherent mumbling that streams from his mouth, add to Dean's suspicion that he isn't equipped to treat Sam this time. While John isn't there and hasn't left specific instructions regarding spontaneous illness, Dean's ready to race Sam to the hospital if he feels it's necessary._

_The thermometer beeps, and Dean carefully removes it from Sam's mouth, reading the temperature. One-hundred-two degrees. It's higher than he likes, but it isn't dangerous. Not yet._

_He gets up for only a moment and wets a rag in cool water to place on Sam's forehead. Then, he settles in his spot beside Sam, ready to stay awake throughout the night and monitor him. Make sure that Sam doesn't get worse. Apply cool cloths. Keep him hydrated. Make sure he takes Tylenol at the proper intervals in the proper dosage._

_It feels good to fall back into the role of caretaker. His time at Sonny's is a part of his life that he won't forget, and there's a lot about it that he enjoyed, but he'll never regret coming back to his old life._

_He'll never regret choosing Sam._

Sam still doesn't know about those months, Dean realizes. The story they told him was that Dean got lost on a hunt, not that John decided to 'teach him a lesson' and leave him in a boys' home. Although, he thinks he's pretty lucky that he got off with being placed in a home meant for rehabilitation rather than left in a juvenile detention facility.

"Close your eyes, Sam," Dean says. "I'll stay right here."

It's childish, but Sam doesn't have many other ways to communicate, so Dean doesn't comment on this gesture. Sam raises his hand ever so slightly and curls (sort of) all of his fingers into a fist except for his pinky finger, and the message is clear.

Pinky promise?

Dean smiles and intertwines his pinky with Sam's.

"Yeah," he says. "Pinky promise."

* * *

Sam sleeps. It's still a restless sleep, but it doesn't seem to be filled with nightmares. At least, it isn't filled with nightmares of the same caliber as previous nights.

His eyes look a bit less haunted, and the bags beneath them are not quite as dark.

Dean spends the morning helping Sam with simple exercises, and maybe it's wishful thinking, but he thinks that Sam is able to go a little further this time. Stretch a little more. It isn't much in the long run, but Dean is ready to take any semblance of progress he can get his hands on.

He props Sam up and tries to get him to eat something instead of only drinking broth and the village's dwindling supply of way-past-expiration-date protein powder (which is too old to do Sam any good and might actually make him sick, if it isn't already). But if he's learned anything (and he's learned a lot in the past few days), it's that Sam just isn't hungry. He's never hungry.

Though, maybe there's an issue that keeps him from being able to comfortably eat. Something wrong with his throat. While he can make sounds, that doesn't mean that everything is in perfect condition, or even suitable condition.

Dean, on the other hand, is exhausted and starving. He spent the night watching Sam, not getting any sleep himself, and no matter how much food he can find and shove down his own throat, he craves more. His stomach _begs_ for more.

Sam notices, and Dean's been ignoring the way he pointedly looks at him, then at the bed, and back at him. He's trying to tell Dean without words to get some rest.

Communication with Sam might be a pain in the ass, but if Dean pays attention, he realizes that Sam's pretty good at getting his point across without words.

"I'm not going to take a nap, Sam."

He can almost hear Sam say "Why not?" with the way he looks at him. (Although, it might be "Don't be an idiot, Dean. Get some rest.")

"Because I don't need to. Besides, what would you do? Stare at the ceiling?"

Sam blinks twice. No, he would not stare at the ceiling.

"What else is there for you to do? Take a nap, too?"

Sam blinks once.

"Seriously?"

Another blink.

"Fine, but I'm not making you tea for a nap. I don't want you getting used to it to the point that it won't help you sleep anymore," Dean says.

Maybe it's an irrational fear, but he doesn't want to overuse a good thing until it no longer works. He'll take what he can get, but he isn't about to run with it.

Slow and steady, right?

Sam blinks once more, and Dean lies on his own bed, staring at the ceiling for only a moment before he closes his eyes. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he feels better the second his head is on a pillow that's nearly flat with age. He needs the rest. Sam needs more rest, too. The more rest, the better. His broken body has a long way to go to recover any amount of independence.

But, for now, they deserve a quiet moment.

Dean is asleep within seconds.

* * *

Cas showing up at the front door that evening brings an ominous feeling to the cabin. Or, at least, it leaves Dean with an ominous feeling, and he considers shutting the door on one of the only friends who stuck with him through all this Apocalypse bullshit. But he doesn't. He steps aside and lets Cas enter.

Cas steps into the bedroom, and Dean follows.

"Sam appears to be doing well," he says.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I'm trying to help him regain some motion with physical therapy exercises. Hopefully it'll help."

"You're… much more accepting of this situation than I remember," Cas says.

"Well, I've had a lot of time and not many other responsibilities."

"I'm unsure how long that will last."

"And why do you think that?" Dean asks.

Isn't that just what he needs, another mess that isn't his to clean up?

Cas looks between Sam and Dean, and Dean really doesn't want to hear whatever reasoning he has for the possibility of being pulled back into a role he doesn't want. "My connection to Heaven becomes stronger by the day, and I've regained enough power to tap into what the angels are saying."

"Sounds like they aren't saying anything good."

"I wouldn't say that it's bad, but it might be the start of something. They talk about restoration and redemption."

"You think they're talking about humans?" Dean asks.

"A large part of Heaven was the souls of humans residing in it. Angels are able to draw on the energy of those souls in times of need, so naturally they'd want to start adding souls to Heaven once again."

"You mean none of the people who've died since the angels left have gone to Heaven?"

Dean sits on the edge of his bed, breath drawn from his lungs by the weight of Cas' words. If none of those souls went to Heaven, then he executed people who showed signs of turning and he damned them. He thought he was giving them peace, but he wasn't. He wasn't.

And Bobby…

"From what I can tell, no," Cas says. "But that doesn't mean the angels won't solve that issue."

"How? Where would the souls be if they couldn't get to Heaven?"

"The Veil," Cas says. "They would be stuck on Earth as ghosts."

"And only the angels can fix that?" Dean asks.

"As far as I know, yes. A reaper cannot take a soul to Heaven if the gates are closed."

Dean takes a deep breath, and releases it slowly.

"But there's hope," Cas says. "If the angels are sticking around now, they must believe that Earth can be saved. That it can be fixed."

"I don't want to be dragged into another divine mess," Dean says. He stands up and holds his arms out to the sides. "Look around and see where the last one landed us."

He gestures at Sam. "Look where the last one landed _him._ "

"Dean, it might not be an option. If this is what's best for the world—"

"I don't give a fuck about the world," Dean says, "and it's pretty obvious the feeling's mutual."

"Even if it meant giving up any chance of regaining what the world used to be like?"

"I'm not gonna live long enough to see the world return to what it used to be."

"You don't know that if you never try."

"Look, this is all just a bunch of hypothetical bullshit right now. There might not be a way to fix the mess, and maybe the angels are just sticking around to start collecting souls again. I don't care. Dealing with those issues is Beth's problem now. I have my own responsibilities."

"It's hypothetical now, but it might not stay that way," Cas says.

Dean sits back down on his bed and sets his focus on Sam. "I have Sam. You wanted me to take care of him. All of you wanted me to take care of him. That's what I'm doing. It's what I plan on doing for the foreseeable future. Let the world handle its own shit."

"I hope you change your mind if the opportunity to fix this world presents itself."

Dean doesn't say anything.

"I'll stop by another day, I guess," Cas says.

Dean nods and listens as Cas walks away and out the door. Dean never thought he'd miss stoner Cas, but he'd forgotten the righteous side of angel Cas. He forgot how God's Warriors did what _they_ thought was right, and expected that the people they needed would fall in line. He hopes it isn't a permanent reversal, that Cas remembers and has learned from his time as a complete mortal, but he has other things to worry about. Maybe it's good that Cas has a new goal to pursue. Maybe it's good that he's finding a purpose for moving forward.

For now, it doesn't matter.

Sam stares at him, but Dean can't read his expression this time. No matter how good he's getting at understanding Sam's body language and expressions, he hasn't perfected it. Not yet.

"Just you and me against the world, Sam," Dean says. "The way it's always been, right? The way it's always supposed to be."

Sam blinks once.

They'll get through it. They always have.

Somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, I considered ending it right here since the last line would work decently with a coming full circle vibe, but I didn't! I didn't come up with plot to throw it away here.


	14. Speak

They fall into a pattern, and Dean finds that the days pass quickly. The days aren't easy, but they feel easier than all the days Dean spent alone as the village's leader. Sam makes improvements. They might be small, but slow progress is still progress. They're together, and they have time.

Cas hasn't checked in again since his talk about the angels and the possibility that they might help Earth (for their own selfish reasons). Dean hasn't exactly sought him out, either. He's not ready to deal with something on the scale of what helping the angels implies. Hasn't he given enough to this shit-hole of a world? Has anything he done ever helped? When have the angels ever helped him out of the goodness of their hearts?

When he looks back on his decisions, they seem to have only made problems worse. He sold his soul to save Sam, and he broke the first seal because of it. He tried to control Sam, and he only pushed Sam away because of it.

Then, like an idiot, he let Sam go off on his own and told him to stay away because they were the fire and oil of the Apocalypse, and he wasn't there when Sam needed him the most. He wasn't there when Lucifer got his hands on Sam, and he was the bargaining chip that made Sam finally give in to Lucifer's wishes.

So, he envelops himself in a bubble of a world that revolves around only him and Sam and healing, ignoring the real world and its problems. The problems they face in the confines of the cabin are real enough.

And it works for awhile. Sam regains enough strength to sit up on his own for short periods of time. He learns to make grunting sounds that give Dean hope that words aren't too far away. He eats… sort of, and Dean is left to wonder how he's surviving with how little food gets into his stomach. He's worried that there'll be a tipping point or that Sam will get sick and even weaker as winter comes and brings cold weather with it. He's worried that Sam, already being skin and bones, will waste away before he has the chance to explain what happened since they went their separate ways all those years ago.

For now, he just deals with one day at a time. One step forward at a time. They aren't sprinting yet, just taking baby steps and hoping that they don't trip.

A knock on the door draws Dean out of his routine. He considers not answering, but the idea that there's an emergency has him making his way to the door and opening it.

To his surprise, it's Chuck standing on his front porch, not Cas.

"Hey," Dean says.

"Uh, hey, Dean," Chuck says. "Sam is…?"

Dean jerks his head towards the bedroom, then steps aside to let Chuck in.

"He's doing better, given what we have to work with," Dean says. "Making slow progress, but it's still progress."

"That's good," Chuck says, standing in the doorway of the bedroom. "I'm glad to hear that."

Sam manages to sit up, and Dean situates the pillows behind him to help keep him up. He has a feeling that Chuck might be sticking around longer than Sam is able to support himself in an upright position.

"Any particular reason for the visit, Chuck?" Dean asks. "You aren't exactly the… social type."

"Curiosity, mostly," Chuck says.

"About what?"

"Sam and how he's doing. How much information he's given you."

"Not much other than why he let Lucifer ride him. You know he did it to keep me from being thrown back into Hell?" Dean looks at Sam, who's aware, but unable to participate in conversation as much as he'd like to. "Selfless idiot."

"I know, Dean."

"Right. Because you know the entire story, but it's apparently not important enough to tell me."

"It's not about it being important," Chuck says. "It's important that you hear it from Sam. I just watch what happens, I don't _feel_ it. I didn't feel what Sam went through. I can imagine what it felt like, sure, but it wouldn't be the same hearing it from me."

Dean hates Chuck's reasoning. He doesn't care about the emotion behind the story. He just cares about the story. How the hell does Chuck expect him to help Sam if he doesn't know what happened to him?

"Cas thinks that the angels sticking around means there could be an end to this nightmare." Dean changes the subject. If Chuck won't give him the answers he wants, he might be able to elaborate on Cas' belief that the world isn't as completely fucked as it appears.

"I know," Chuck says. "He told me."

"Do you know how the hell this could possibly all end?"

"I… have an idea."

"Yeah? Are you gonna share it, or is that something I'm not allowed to hear, too?"

"Well, think about it. The Croats all have the same agenda, like they're a part of a hive mind. If they're all connected and following the same orders, then someone—or something—has to be giving those orders."

"So, we have to find the head of the snake and cut it off," Dean says. "But I…"

Dean looks at Sam, whose slumped on the mound of pillows Dean arranged for him and fast asleep. He still has issues staying awake for long periods of time, but Dean gets it. If anyone needs the extra rest, it's Sam. He hopes that, one day, it will be enough to help him move independently again. To help him speak again.

"You have other responsibilities," Chuck says, finishing his sentence for him.

"Yeah."

"You've come a long way," Chuck says, "but I knew that you'd come around. No matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, you could never give up on Sam."

"I guess not," Dean says. "Knowing the reasons behind his choices, or at least one choice, makes me feel like shit for how I treated him at first. He damned the entire world for me, and I could barely stand to be in the same room as him. Then, if I was in the same room, I took every verbal jab at him that I could."

Saying it aloud makes it that much worse. Dean apologized to Sam, but he'll never be able to pull those words back into his mouth. He'll never be able to scrub the sound of them from Sam's ears.

"You didn't know."

"No, but I should've known that Sam isn't the type to just say 'yes' to being possessed by freaking Lucifer. I should've known that there had to be more to his story other than the lies that I kept telling myself to make it easier to deal with his loss."

"Well, you know now. I guess you'll just have to make up for it. You already are with how much you're giving up to help him."

"How much I'm giving up?" Dean asks. "I never wanted to be Camp Chitaqua's leader. I gave up a job I never wanted to help Sam heal."

"And he's making progress. You are, too."

Dean looks at Chuck. "What?"

"You're making progress," Chuck says. "You can stand to be in the same room as Sam, and you've even started saying his name again."

"Yeah, well, there's still a long way to go for the both of us."

"Maybe, but moving forward is a lot better than standing still."

"I know," Dean says. "I just feel like there isn't an end sometimes."

"Like there will always be another problem? Another obstacle to overcome?"

"Yeah."

Chuck nods. "That's how life is, Dean. There's always something new to deal with. There's always a new problem. A new threat."

"How optimistic."

"The world doesn't allow for optimism," Chuck says. "It hasn't allowed for it in years."

Dean doesn't need to be a prophet to agree with that.

* * *

He has mixed feelings about the harvest. The entire village eats well and gets plenty of nutrients during it, but it leaves him wondering if they've managed to grow enough to last through the winter. If they have enough to jar and dry and ration throughout the cold, bitter months.

For now, he's going to enjoy the soup that the cooks are making in the common kitchen. It's warm and filling with chunks of vegetables and pieces of venison.

He eats his bowl at one of the tables like dozens of other villagers—feeling like he's back in high school rather than living through the Apocalypse—then he grabs a bowl to take back to his cabin. He rushes, but he knows that Sam is going to be okay for the half-hour it takes him to walk to the kitchen, eat his own share, get another bowl, and walk back to his cabin.

He doesn't feel at ease until he steps through his front door and locks it behind him. No one bothered him while he ate alone at a table in the corner, but that didn't stop them from casting glances at him and whispering to each other that they wondered where he'd been. Why he's been holing up in his own cabin after stepping down from leadership.

They couldn't understand his reasoning, and they'd never understand his relationship with Sam, his brother who, at times, is more like his son. He raised Sam, after all. John was never there when they were growing up, not when he was needed. So, they learned to not need him.

Dean takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, trying to breathe out his thoughts of the world outside his cabin.

"I'm back, Sam," he says, walking into the bedroom. "Think you could get some soup into your stomach?"

Sam shrugs his unburnt shoulder.

"The vegetables and meat are soft," Dean says. "I think that they should be soft enough for you to chew them. It might take awhile, but it might be good for you to get back into the habit of eating solids."

Sam grunts, but it's tough to know what he's trying to say with his limited amount of sounds along with the binary limitation of blinking.

"Are you willing to try?"

Sam blinks once. Yes, he's willing to at least try, and Dean doesn't think that he can ask for much more than that.

Dean sets the bowl down for a moment and props Sam up as best as he can, even if that only means he's upright enough to lessen his chance of choking. Then, he settles on the edge of Sam's bed, blowing on each spoonful of soup (which only contains one chunk of a vegetable or one chunk of meat, and never anything more) to make sure it isn't too hot. Sam doesn't need any more burns, no matter how quickly a burnt mouth heals.

Sam chews slowly, and each spoonful takes a long time to finally get down his throat. There are a few times that Dean worries he's going to have to perform the Heimlich maneuver on Sam's already broken body, but Sam manages to not choke.

To Dean's surprise, Sam makes it through half the soup before he shakes his head.

"Done?"

Sam blinks once.

Dean takes the bowl into his kitchen. While he's glad that Sam's gotten _something_ in his stomach, he doesn't feel like it's enough. Sam is thin, and he isn't eating enough to remedy that. How is he eating enough to stay alive?

He takes a second to clear his head. Sam can't answer the questions he has, not yet. Not until he can regain his speech.

He's take a seat on his own bed after helping Sam lie back down.

"Was it good, at least?" Dean asks.

Sam blinks once. Yeah, it was good.

Dean nods. "Good. Good. Maybe we can start getting you to eat more. Build up your strength. Get you on the path to independence. I know that's… what you've always wanted the most… Independence."

_He feels the tension in the room as if it's a physical thing, like it could be bottled and stored with a label slapped on it. He wishes that he could move, but he can't. He's stuck in place and left to watch his little family fall apart._

" _What the hell is that supposed to mean, Sam?" John asks._

" _What do you think it means? I got into one of the best colleges in the entire fucking country, and they're willing to pay completely for me to attend."_

" _So that's it? You're just going to abandon your family?"_

" _How is wanting to go to college the same as abandoning my family?" Sam asks. "Is college mutually exclusive to having a family?"_

" _It's selfish," John says. "You'd rather go off and party and waste four years of your life instead of helping us hunt the thing that killed your mother over_ your _crib? Fine. But if you go, don't come back."_

_Dean had hoped, until that point, that they could all work something out. They could talk through it, and Sam would change his mind and stay. They'd continue on as they always have._

_But once his dad gives an ultimatum, he sees the determination set in Sam, and he knows that Sam has made his choice. He also knows that, once Sam makes a choice, it's near impossible to convince him to change his mind._

_He's going to lose his brother. He's right there, the focal point of Dean's existence, but he might as well already be gone._

" _Fine," Sam says. "I'll go."_

" _Don't come crying back when you're not cut out for it," John says._

" _Not cut out for what?" Sam asks, already grabbing his packed duffel bag (and when did he pack it without Dean noticing?). "Not cut out for being on my own? I've been left alone in shit-hole motels since I was nine. I've been left alone to fend for myself when you don't leave enough money for food while you're gone on a hunt and taking Dean with you. When I wasn't alone, it sure as hell wasn't_ you _who was there for me. You were_ never _there for me."_

_Sam is almost out of breath after his outburst, and he pulls the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder, swiping his acceptance letter from the table between him and John, where it'd been tossed down when John dismissed the idea of college._

_He looks over his shoulder at Dean, and opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but closes it again before any words come out. Dean thinks that he sees an unspoken apology in Sam's eyes, but it's tough to think clearly when his mind is malfunctioning in denial that he's about to lose another part of his dwindling family._

_And he thinks that he should say something to Sam, too. A last effort to get him to stay, but he doesn't have any words that are enough to bandage the verbal wounds John has inflicted._

_They both keep their silence, and Sam walks out of the room, closing the door behind him with a resounding slam._

_Dean doesn't cry. He doesn't berate his father for saying such harsh words to Sam. He doesn't do anything. He embraces the numbness that's setting in and ignores the fear consolidating in his gut like a rock. The fear that he'll never see Sam again. The fear that he'll never even speak to Sam again._

_John's ultimatum had a note of serious finality, but Dean doesn't want this to be final. He doesn't want to make his brother into an outcast, but Sam still chose to leave with the knowledge that he won't be able to come back._

_John doesn't say anything, not that Dean expects him to. He knows his father well enough to know that he's most likely too angry to get another word out, but he hopes that he's shocked and saddened at Sam's departure as well. He hopes that the ultimatum was meant to convince Sam to stay, even if it had the opposite effect in the end._

_John leaves the room, and Dean knows it isn't to chase after Sam. He knows that he should expect a call later in the night asking him to go pick up his father from some hole-in-the-wall bar that's served him too many drinks._

_Until then, he's left standing alone in the aftermath of the collision of Sam's strive for independence and his father's belief that hunting is the only thing that matters._

_He's left alone._

Sam's hand clumsily landing on his knee pulls him back to reality. He watches Sam struggle to lift his arm up and point at his head, then jerk his head towards Dean.

'What are you thinking about?' Dean's been around Sam enough to understand that much. He's relearned Sam's body language, even if it's different than it used to be due to his new scarring and immobility.

"It's nothing," Dean says. "Nothing important."

Sam looks like he doesn't believe Dean, but it's not like he can protest or demand that Dean tells him what had him so lost in thought.

There are a few benefits to Sam's limited communication ability, and Dean might as well use them while he can.

* * *

Chuck's words linger in his head, the idea that this could all end. That they could set the world back on its proper path and try to give back the futures they've stolen. If that's possible…

Dean doesn't know what to do. Sam needs him. He can't leave Sam behind for any efforts to fix the problems of the Apocalypse, especially when there's a very real possibility that he wouldn't return. He has to return to Sam.

He _has_ to.

"Did you hear what Chuck said?" Dean asks. "About having an idea to deal with the Croats. Cutting the head off the snake and all that?"

Sam blinks twice. No, he did not hear that. Not that Dean's surprised, Sam had fallen asleep while Chuck was at the cabin to pay them a visit.

"He thinks that the Croats act like a hive mind. You know, all having the same agenda. The same purpose. So, the idea is that, if we get rid of the thing giving the orders, then we get rid of the Croats."

Sam blinks once. Yes?

"Wait, you know about that stuff?"

One blink.

"Do you know if Chuck's right? If we can get rid of the Croats by killing whatever the hell is giving them orders?"

One blink.

"How?"

Dean can't stop himself from asking, even if Sam still can't answer. If Sam knows a way to end the Croats once and for all, then Dean is going to put all of his effort towards helping him regain his speech so that he can tell them how to fix this. So he can tell them how they can stop living in fear of a Croat attack or of being turned into a Croat while on a supply run, a fate Dean nearly succumbed to when he was too distracted by Sam's sudden return to pay attention to his surroundings.

Sam groans and his brow furrows in his concentration. He opens his mouth, but nothing resembling a word finds its way out.

Dean doesn't interrupt him. He sees how much effort Sam is putting into this, and he's not about to ruin it by telling him that he doesn't need to say anything. He probably shouldn't push himself, but that might be exactly what he needs. Sam's always been the type to push himself. It's what got him a full-ride to Stanford (and did Dean ever tell him how freaking proud that made him, even if he hated that it meant Sam had to leave?).

It's takes several minutes, and many fragmented bits of sound, before Sam croaks out one word one syllable at a time in a voice that's rough and gravelly from disuse (and quite possibly internal damage that none of them have been able to discover). It hurts Dean's ears to hear, but he can't deny that he admires Sam's stubbornness, even if he often hated it while they were growing up (and even beyond that).

"Roanoke."


	15. A Touch of Hope

Roanoke?

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says. "I remember that history lesson you gave me back in River Grove."

In truth, he forgot about that tidbit for a long time, even if he never forgot about the ending to that hunt or his fear when Sam was infected by the nurse. He'll never forget what it felt like to sit in a room with Sam begging him to leave the gun and get out, but he was fully prepared to follow Sam into death. He'd just lost Dad, what was the point in moving forward if he lost Sam, too?

No, there's a lot about that hunt that will always be burned in his memory, and a few parts that continue to show up in his nightmares on occasion. Sam's history lesson about Roanoke and Croatoan isn't one of those memories that cling to him. Until the Apocalypse started, he had no reason to think about that part.

Even after the Apocalypse, he hasn't had much reason to believe that Sam's story about some long-lost colony would ever hold importance.

Sam blinks twice and groans. No?

"What?"

Sam rolls his eyes and tries to repeat himself, but Dean interrupts him.

"Yeah. Roanoke. I get it."

Although, if Sam is protesting, he must not be getting _it._

"Roanoke. The lost colony or whatever," Dean says. "They had 'Croatoan' carved into a tree or some shit and every sign that the colony existed in the first place was gone."

Sam makes a series of incoherent sounds, though it's obvious to Dean that he's giving his best effort to get another word out. It's also obvious that talking, while possible, is extraordinarily difficult and seemingly painful for Sam.

"De—" he says, not able to finish the word he's trying to say and instead drawing out 'de'.

Sam huffs and takes a deep breath before he tries again. It might come out as two separate chunks of a word, but Dean has no issue putting them together.

Demon.

_Sam's gesturing at the word 'Croatoan' carved into the telephone pole like it has significance and Dean isn't seeing it. Which, if there is significance there, he_ doesn't _see it._

_He doesn't want to be there. Nothing good ever comes from following Sam's visions, and his father's last words are still too fresh in his mind._

" _Dad has his own theory that Roanoke is a demon," Sam says._

_And demons are the last thing Dean feels like dealing with at the moment. Demons are the last things that Dean even wants to think about. They ruined his life, and they've taken both of his parents away from him now. What if he's next? What if_ Sam's _next?_

The pieces of what Sam's trying to tell him fall into place.

"It's a demon," Dean says. "Roanoke is a demon."

Sam blinks once, grinning as much as he's able to at Dean putting it together.

"You know that for sure?"

One blink.

"So, Dad was right."

One blink.

"Holy shit," Dean says. "How… Did you come across him while Lucifer was in charge?"

One blink.

"So, if we kill Roanoke, we kill the Croats?" Dean asks.

One blink, but this time Sam doesn't open his eyes again. He rests his head on his pillows, exhausted from the unexpected exertion that speaking required from him.

Dean doesn't mind. Sam needs the rest, and Dean has more than enough to think about. He hasn't dared to hope in a long time, always knowing that he'd be disappointed in the end. This, though, is different. This is a real goal. It's a goal where accomplishing it will bring about results that can be seen. Killing a demon is something he can do. It's something he knows how to deal with. Something he has been dealing with for years, and he finally feels like he's standing on familiar ground.

And if Sam is right, then he might be around long enough to see the world start back on its proper path to a future that allows for prosperity and advancement, not one focused on survival at all costs.

He allows himself that small hope instead of burying it within himself and silently killing it.

He has to talk to Cas. He has to talk to Chuck. Beth should hear about it, but he doesn't want the other villagers to know and get their hopes up just yet.

There's a lot for him to do and a lot to be discussed, but for now, he lies on his own bed and stares at the ceiling. He isn't tired, and he doesn't plan on resting in any meaningful capacity, but he's not about to leave Sam's side. Not while he's defenseless and drained.

Not after he's ignited a spark of hope that Dean never thought he'd have again. Hope that this nightmare can end someday.

* * *

He pounds on Cas' door with heavy-handed, impatient knocks. He waits a handful of seconds, then readies his fist to knock on the door again, but stops once he hears footsteps from the other side moments before Cas opens the door.

"Dean?" he asks. "What do you want?"

He looks like he's just rolled out of bed—and maybe fallen on the floor in the process. It's the middle of the day, but no one at Camp Chitaqua has a need to keep anything resembling a normal schedule from before the Apocalypse. Well, no one Dean regularly worked with as the leader, at least. He's sure the villagers who do most of the work in providing them food need to be up at certain times of the day to do their jobs properly. The people who were farmers before the Apocalypse struck and who know the required schedules to care for animals and get milk and eggs, things that Dean found a new appreciation for when the world really started going to shit.

"I want you to come back to my cabin so we can chat for a bit."

"About what?"

"Sam," Dean says. He starts walking through the make-shift roads of the village, forcing Cas to follow behind him if he has more questions. Being Cas, of course he has more questions.

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Dean says. "He's pretty good actually, but I'll tell you more specifics once we're at the cabin. I don't want anyone listening in."

It isn't a matter of trust in the villagers, but a matter of privacy. They don't need to know about the mess of his and Sam's lives.

"Who's with him right now?"

"No one, which is why I'd like to fucking hurry along back to him."

"Dean—"

"You'll get it once I explain it to you," Dean says. "You'll understand why I'm dragging you out. It's big, Cas. Game-changing."

"There's something I should tell you as well," Cas says.

"Like what?"

"I've been hearing pieces of conversations among the angels, but, like you, I think it's something best discussed in private."

"It better not be bad news," Dean says. "We need some wins here, Cas. We can't have another crisis. We just… we can't."

"I'm not sure that it's bad news," Cas says, slowly enunciating his words. "It's a big event, but I'm uncertain if it is good or bad. I think that Sam might even know something about it."

Dean bites his tongue. He wants to tell Cas that he better not demand anything from Sam, getting real words out is still a feat for him and leaves him exhausted and in pain. But he knows that it isn't his place to ban Cas from asking Sam questions, not when Dean spent so long treating him like shit and demanding in all but words that he should just get better and move on (and away from Dean). That he needs to tell them what happened to him, and then disappear from their lives for good this time.

It's almost difficult to think about the things he said and the way he felt at first, but on the harder days where Sam struggles more than normal, those feelings creep back.

Sam deserves better than him, but he does his best to keep those dark thoughts to himself. He does his best to tell himself that Sam isn't a burden. That he owes Sam for sacrificing himself and the world to keep Dean out of Hell, and he's not sure he can think of any other siblings who would go to such lengths for each other. Although, they've never been normal siblings, not when they had to grow up in a world of nightmares.

"We'll see," he says instead of all the biting words that crawl up the back of his throat, ready to hurl themselves at Cas.

If Cas notices the underlying threat in his words, he doesn't say anything. Although, as he reconnects to Heaven, he seems to be losing his connection to humanity. Dean wonders if it's possible for Cas to fully regain his grace and be a full-fledged angel again, but he hopes that, even if that happens, Cas will remember enough about his time as a mortal left behind by the other angels who were not on Lucifer's side to be… different. To be kind and fair and helpful, not just a warrior looking to do the bidding of a God who left them millennia ago.

Everything they've been through together and survived has to count for something.

"I'd never try to hurt Sam intentionally," Cas says. "He might not have any information at all."

Of course, Cas wouldn't hurt him. Dean knows that. He _knows_ that. It was Cas who took care of Sam for so long when Dean was adamant about having nothing to do with Sam. Hell, he's probably more trustworthy when it comes to taking care of Sam than Dean is. Even if he doesn't know how to fix what's wrong, it won't stop him from being a constant presence and trying his best to do what he can.

"I know you wouldn't hurt him," Dean says. "I just… I've lost him once, and I was so angry for so long that I couldn't remember what I really lost. Now I'm scared."

"I understand, but you can't do this completely on your own, Dean. You're going to need help to get him mobile again. You'll need help to take care of him, and that's okay. You aren't alone."

"I know," Dean says, thinking of endless strings of motel rooms with one other occupant he could count on being there at any time. "I never have been."

* * *

When Dean walks into the bedroom and sees Sam staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, he can't help but think how absolutely bored he must be at every point in the day. He's confined to a bed, struggling with the simplest movements and barely able to spit out one word at a time, how could he not be losing his mind?

Dean knows what real Hell is like, but it isn't a stretch of the imagination to think that this state is a personal Hell for Sam. As frustrated as he can be at times with Sam and having to take care of him (and he tries—damn it, _he tries—_ not to feel like a babysitter and let it bother him, but he's only human, too), he knows that he needs to keep in mind that he has the option to step outside for fresh air. He can separate himself from his burdens for a few minutes and rejuvenate himself, watching the villagers go on with their lives, unfazed by Sam's sudden presence, because to them, he isn't present at all.

Cas follows him, and he snaps back to the reason Cas tagged along in the first place. Now isn't the time for him to lose himself in thoughts that won't change anything.

"Well, who wants to start?" Dean asks.

Sam drags his focus over to Dean. Dean filled him in on why he was leaving to bring Cas back, but he's sure that Sam is hoping he doesn't have to speak again. Not so soon. Not too many words.

Cas moves closer to Sam. "Do you feel like answering some questions?"

Sam looks at Cas, then back at Dean, who is able to read the silent desperation in his eyes. No, he doesn't feel like answering questions right now. It's not tough to imagine that Sam will push himself to do it anyway, if Dean wants him to. If Dean doesn't intervene.

"Maybe later, Cas," Dean says. "I think he used up all he had to tell me about the Croats."

"What about the Croats?" Cas asks, turning his attention to Dean.

"Chuck came by and talked about the Croats, mostly about how they all had to be connected to carry out what must be the same set of orders. He talked about getting rid of the thing giving those orders, and getting rid of the Croats by extension."

"Does it work like that?"

"I don't know, but Sam told me that he knew Chuck was right. That we could get rid of the Croats if we kill their leader."

"But we still need to find their leader," Cas says. "And they aren't exactly the type that can be interrogated. It'd be too dangerous to capture one and question it."

"No, we know their leader. Well, Sam knows their leader. Some demon named Roanoke."

"Roanoke?"

"Yeah, you know him?"

Cas shakes his head. "Not really. By name and reputation, but not much more. He's the kind of demon that takes control of human minds, infecting them. It would make sense that, if any demon is behind the Croats, it would be Roanoke. But he's ancient, and he's never used his power on a scale this large before."

"He's never had Lucifer as an ally before," Dean says. "But if you know him, do you know how we could kill him? I mean, will Ruby's knife work on him? Hell, I'd settle for knowing how to find him, at least."

"I… I don't know," Cas says. "And I'm not sure there are any resources available for me to use to research such a topic. If Sam has the knowledge that Roanoke is the head of the Croats, then it's possible that he's our only source of information. If he doesn't know how to find him, then I'm not sure anybody would."

Dean looks at Sam, glad that he's still with them in the conversation mentally, if not verbally.

"Do you know how to find him?" Dean asks.

Sam blinks twice, pauses, then blinks once.

"Is that… a maybe?" Dean asks.

One blink. Yeah, he might know how to find Roanoke.

Dean wants to ask more in-depth questions, but he knows that Sam isn't ready to answer yet. He isn't ready to speak again, and Dean's not sure he'd be able to with how difficult it was last time. It's difficult to be patient with the taste of freedom from the Croats so close, if they could have just a little more information, but he knows that he has to relax a bit. He won't help anyone by being strung out about things he can't control, and it isn't like they're ready to do anything about the Croats on short notice. It'll require a lot of planning and preparing. He knows that, of course, he does. He led the village for long enough to understand how much planning goes into something as simple as a supply run. This is a war, not a single battle.

Cas opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off.

"I think that's enough of that topic for today," he says. "What was the big news you had, Cas?"

"The angels talk about Michael as though he's returned."

" _What?"_

" _You have to say 'yes' to Michael, Dean," Zachariah says, a smug grin on his too-round face that Dean is itching to smack off. "It's you who will usher in Paradise."_

" _No," Dean says. "No, that is not happening. I'm not about to willingly agree to be a meat puppet for the leader of the winged dicks."_

" _It's not a choice," Zachariah says. "You will play your part."_

" _Or what? You're going to send me back to Hell? You're going to kill me? Torture me? Go ahead. Don't you get it? I don't have any reason left to live."_

" _Don't you want to save Sam?"_

_Dean rolls his eyes. "You honestly expect me to believe that you're going to save him after Michael kills Lucifer, who happens to be in control of his body? I might not be the smartest man alive, but I'm not dumb enough to trust a goddamn word you say."_

_Zachariah narrows his eyes, and Dean can almost see him thinking about smiting him. About snapping his fingers and killing him in an instant. Dean almost wants him to. Sam is unreachable now, and Dean is sure that he'll never be_ Sam _again. He'll always be Sam's body with Lucifer inside of it._

_That idea sends knives into his heart, and Dean doesn't want to live in a world like that. He's been drinking himself to unconsciousness nearly every night, and more than a few mornings, but the problem is that he always wakes up. He feels like shit when he does, but he knows that he isn't dead._

_The world isn't that merciful to Dean._

" _You'll give in," Zachariah says. "Maybe not today, but you will. I just hope you come to your senses before it's too late."_

_Dean doesn't get the chance to ask Zachariah what he means, because he vanishes as soon as he's finished speaking with a soft ruffle of wings that Dean almost thinks is part of his imagination._

_He shakes his head and grabs his jacket, preparing for another night at another nameless bar. Fuck Zachariah. Fuck Lucifer and Michael. Fuck this shitty world, and God for ditching and leaving them to clean up the mess He made._

_Fuck Sam for letting Lucifer possess him._

_And fuck him for not being there to keep Sam from giving in._

_Let Lucifer ruin the world. Who cares anymore?_

_Not Dean. He's alone, and he's never not going to be alone again, so what's the point?_

Sam's eyes widen, and he turns his head away from them, trying to bury it into his pillow with his limited mobility.

At this point, Dean shouldn't be surprised that Sam is showing signs that he has information regarding what they're talking about. If nothing else, being a backseat driver to Lucifer has given him access to all sorts of opportunities to be behind enemy lines. Hell, he experienced what it was like (sort of) to be the enemy leader. The amount that he knows about this post-Apocalyptic world and its causes and possible solutions—all the big players who helped make it happen—is invaluable.

Dean is particularly interested in how Lucifer was finally defeated, but he'll settle for learning whether Michael has returned or not. Especially considering the angels made it sound like the only way they'd stay would be if Dean agreed to be a vessel, and he refused. Why would they come back if their leader had an unwilling human as his true vessel?

"Sam, has Michael returned? Is it true?" Cas asks.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and manages a minuscule nod.

Dean feels his heart nearly stop in the grip of an invisible force. If Michael is back, will he pursue his true vessel again? Why wouldn't he? Who else would he use?

Why hasn't he contacted Dean in some way if he does want his true vessel? Why come back at all?

Dean thought he had a pretty good grasp on the world after the Apocalypse during the years he spent leading Camp Chitaqua. He hardened his heart, told himself lies to make living easier, and built walls within walls in case all other emotional protections failed.

Now, however, he feels like he's never truly understood a thing about this world. To make it worse, every time he thinks he's getting his grip, it's ripped away by a new revelation. His world's been shaken so many times, he's not sure it will ever stop.

Not that he has the time to think about the madness he's found himself in, not when Sam is trying to hide his face from them at the mere mention of Michael like he's…

Like he's afraid.

Cas looks lost for words, so Dean says, "I think we've all had enough earthshaking revelations today."

"Dean, this is Michael we're talking about. The archangel who leads Heaven. If he's back, then… there's hope."

"Hope for what?" Dean asks. "The angels have never done shit to help us, and I doubt they'll start now. If they're back, it's for their own selfish reasons. The only hope we have is finding and killing Roanoke to finally put an end to the Croatoan virus. It isn't the angels' return that's bringing us hope, it's Sam's."

Dean looks over at Sam, who's turned his face back towards them with the slight change of topic. Dean knows he's being scrutinized for honesty with the way Sam's eyes narrow (as if they can open very wide in the first place) and track his smallest motions, but he doesn't have much to hide these days. Sam's given Dean back a willingness to live that he hasn't had in a long time. The angels returning could never accomplish that.

"It wouldn't hurt to ask them for help. You never know, things may have changed."

"Well, you can ask them for help," Dean says. "But I'm going to stay here and continue helping Sam. I'm going to work with him and learn from him until we find a real way to take care of the Croats permanently and set the world on the path to recovery."

Dean ushers Cas out of his cabin, but Cas stops on the porch and turns to face Dean before he leaves.

"I just want to believe," he says. "I need to believe in this."

"I know," Dean says.

Cas nods and leaves. Dean closes the door.

Of course, he knows. Cas was abandoned by his fellow angels. He was left alone on a dying planet because he wanted to help the humans, not use them to usher in Paradise for the angels. He has good reason to be confused. He has good reason to be hopeful, because he hasn't had hope for himself in a long time. Too long.

Like all of them, but Dean has Sam back, and while they see Cas as family, he has a family of his own. A different family that they will never be able to understand.

As frustrating as it is to deal with Cas being torn between his old angelic self, his mortal self, and this new in-between state, Dean gets it. He knows what it's like to no longer know his place in the world or even who he is.

But he has other things to worry about that are more important than Cas' identity crisis.

Dean takes a deep breath and runs a hand down his face, then through his hair before he returns to the bedroom where Sam is once again staring at the ceiling, deprived of any forms of entertainment. In the past, before the Apocalypse, they could have propped him up in front of a TV. Now, they don't even have any radio stations pumping out the pop music that made Dean's skin crawl. (Though, maybe they could get a radio station started and try to connect with any other survivors in the area that have gotten a radio to work. There has to be someone in Camp Chitaqua who knows something about that shit and what it would take for them to be able to contact others.)

He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, feeling like he's always there, but he doesn't have many other places to go. Not when Sam is so reliant on him.

"That's… a lot to think about, isn't it?" Dean asks. "We're back to angels and demons and more messes to clean up, but I'm not sure we're fit for this fight. I _know_ we're not fit for this fight."

Sam blinks twice.

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "You think otherwise? What do you expect to be able to do if you cant even walk?"

Dean doesn't say it to be mean, but his words have an unintentional bite to them, and Sam looks away.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says, but he wonders if, maybe, some part of him _did_ mean it like that. The part of him that he tries to stuff down and keep away from ever seeing daylight. "But the fact that, as we are now, we'd be useless to anyone else trying to take care of the Croats remains."

Sam glances over at him and gives him one sluggish blink. Yes, they would be useless.

Dean can almost hear him say "but" and continue into a long-winded explanation of how they could help regardless of being unable to directly fight the Croats or Roanoke.

He almost wants to hear him say that. It's difficult to realize how much he misses Sam's voice and his unending fount of random knowledge, especially after hearing Sam force out two words and proving that his voice isn't gone permanently.

Dean doesn't say anything else about the topic, and he doesn't want to end up insulting Sam even more than he already has (he did enough of that in the time immediately following their discovery of him).

Sam still looks haunted and a bit uneasy, maybe even a little afraid, and Dean suspects that it's because of Cas' mention of Michael. Dean first saw the glimpse of terror and panic in Sam's face when Cas said Michael's name, and Sam isn't the type to calm down easily or quickly. He holds onto his negativity, letting it fester to the point that he can't sleep and is unwilling to eat. If Dean can help it, he won't let Sam reach either of those points this time.

When he really pays attention, Sam looks awful. His hair is dirty and lackluster. There are bags under his unburnt eye, and the burns covering half his body look as painful as they always have. He's concerned about the fact that they don't have any ointment or lotion to help those burns, especially as the air grows colder by the day and even healthy skin dries up to the point of cracking and bleeding.

There's a lot he can't fix, but he might be able to clean Sam's hair. It isn't much, but it's something, and he knows it has to bother Sam. He can't imagine what it's like to want to ask for something, but to be unable to actually ask. And really, Sam damned the entire world for _Dean's_ sake, the least he can do is help him clean his hair. Maybe wipe down his face. Try to figure out all those favors that Sam wants to ask for, but can't.

It's easy to make a list of things he can to do physically help Sam, but he doesn't know how to take his fear away. He doesn't know how to deal with the causes of the nightmares, only how to prevent them from being as severe as they were after Sam first moved in with him.

Dean rests his head in his hands.

The angels are back.

Michael, who said he'd only aid them if Dean agreed to be his vessel, is back, despite the fact that Dean refused to be possessed no matter how many times the angels threatened him or promised him rewards they'd never give him.

Roanoke is a demon (their father was right), and he's the leader of the Croats. If they kill him, the Croats become useless and effectively go extinct.

Sam is afraid of Michael, and was able to confirm that he'd returned, but Dean hasn't been able to ask or figure out why he's afraid.

It's all so much.

It's too much.


	16. There But for the Grace

He waits a few days before mentioning anything about Roanoke, the Croats, or Michael. It isn't easy with the desire for answers burning a hole within him, but he knows that Sam isn't ready to talk. Sam will likely never be ready to talk about how the end of the world ended, but Dean knows that the time to press him is approaching. As much as he'd like to give Sam all the time he needs, he can't.

The world doesn't wait for the wounded.

There's no graceful way to bring up any of the topics he wants to talk about with Sam. There's no way to ease Sam into a conversation about the topics that he clearly doesn't want to discuss. The topics that seem to leave him afraid.

How bad could the answers Dean is looking for be if they're enough to scare a man who had Lucifer riding him for years? It makes him hesitant about asking. But if Sam lived through the experience, then Dean can live through listening about it.

He takes a deep breath. No, he very much doesn't want to face the world beyond the walls of his cabin. He doesn't want to know or understand what's going on out there. He doesn't want to know about what goes on beyond the fence enclosing Camp Chitaqua and keeping them separated from the world of Croats. That's not his responsibility anymore. It's so much easier to isolate himself in a world that revolves around Sam and himself and focuses reconnecting with each other. A world that almost makes him think that things never really changed, if not for Sam's devastating injuries and immobility.

Sam looks at him with his left eyebrow raised in question. Just like before the Apocalypse, Sam is unnaturally good at reading Dean. Especially now that Sam is more aware of his surroundings and interactive with them as he heals.

"I have a lot of questions, but I'm not sure that you can answer them," Dean says. "Not without talking. Besides, I don't know how or what to ask. I don't know how much I _want_ to know."

Sam looks away, then back at him, and Dean figures that it isn't difficult to guess what he means. What he wants—or doesn't want, but needs—to know.

"I saw the look in your eyes when Cas mentioned Michael," Dean says. "Not a stretch of the imagination to assume that it's a topic you'd rather avoid anyway."

Sam blinks once. Yeah, he'd like to avoid talking about Michael.

"We'll have to talk about it eventually."

Sam blinks once. Yeah, he knows that they will, but not right now. Not yet.

"I need to know. There's so much that I don't understand about this new world other than how to survive in it. Someday, I need to know."

Sam blinks once again, and Dean can't help thinking that he doesn't deserve Sam's trust and forgiveness. Sam might have ended the world, but he did it to protect him. And damn if that doesn't humble Dean.

"What about Roanoke?"

Sam stares at him, and Dean almost hears him ask "What _about_ Roanoke?" in the tone that not so subtly lets Dean know that Sam thinks he's an idiot for not giving him more to work with in order to answer.

Dean smiles to himself at the thought, and Sam continues to stare like Dean's lost his mind. And maybe he has. The world has become so crazy over these past years that insanity doesn't seem like a far-off explanation. Looking at everything else they've been through and witnessed, insanity seems like a more likely explanation than the truth.

But his smile fades quickly once reality sinks back in and he feels the weight of Sam's recovery and the weight of the possible end of the Croats place themselves upon his shoulders once again.

"From what the angels said, I was pretty sure that Michael wouldn't be making any appearances without me agreeing to be his vessel," Dean says, "and clearly that didn't happen."

Sam blinks twice. No, clearly it did not happen, but Michael must have had _someone_ as a vessel to have returned and done _something_ to strike fear into Sam that rises at the very mention of him.

Dean wants to know who, if not him, would ever be acceptable as Michael's vessel, but he doesn't dare voice that question. He knows that Sam will push himself to give a vocal answer for Dean, and that's energy he doesn't need to expend right now. It's energy better saved for healing.

" _Michael!" Dean yells into the miles of forest surrounding him. "Come on, I know you want me. Come get me, you son of a bitch! Grade A vessel, right here!"_

_Birds chirp and flutter away from the trees they'd been in before Dean's outburst, and the sounds of nature are all he hears in response to his cries._

_Dean takes deep breaths, his lungs on fire from the abuse he's putting them through in his tantrum, the incessant yelling at nothing and hoping that at least one angel is listening._

" _Michael!" he yells again, his throat raw after hours of this and his voice cracking in the middle of the word. "Michael!"_

_He clenches his hands into fists and relaxes them in time with his breathing. There's a mixture of emotions coursing through him that he neither wants to think about nor attempt to decipher. His chest is being crushed by a vice of despair, and the world of his nightmares is becoming a reality. A world where Sam needs to die, and he knows that he can't bring himself to be the one who kills him. Lucifer riding him or not, Sam is Sam. He might be hidden deep within his own body by Lucifer, but he has to still be there. Somewhere._

_Being Michael's vessel does not give him the same desire to end his little brother that Michael has. They are not one and the same, but he's certain that they both feel equally scorned by the absence of a God who is supposed to be merciful and loving. He's certain that it's out of duty that they both end Lucifer. For Michael, he'll be doing what he was always meant to do: keep Lucifer in check and away from humans. For Dean, he'll be releasing Sam from what has to be no less than a living Hell._

_With a cry of rage, he turns and smashes his fist against the bark of the closest tree. The burst of pain that shoots through his hand is violent, abrupt, and jarring. He's broken at least one finger—he knows the feeling—but he welcomes the pain. It's grounding and better than focusing on the racing thoughts and hopelessness that his current situation brings with it._

_He looks around the forest once more, mentally begging to be presented with some sort of sign that his shouts have been heard._

_But there's nothing. Nothing but stupid fucking trees._

_He falls to his knees and rests his forehead against the bark of the tree he punched. He knew that this would be a long-shot when he first thought of it, but he had to try. He's sick of watching the world fall apart._

_He's sick of seeing people turn into Croats, and being unable to do a damn thing to stop it._

He shakes his memories away. Those are things that Sam doesn't need to hear about. He's already heard too many hurtful things come from Dean's mouth, he doesn't need to know how close his own brother was to giving into the angel who's instilled such a deep fear within him. The angel who must be the one who wounded him so badly.

He doesn't know what to say. Sam's eyes flicker to him, then elsewhere, and back to him. He doesn't want to talk about Michael or about who ended up becoming Michael's vessel. Truth be told, Dean doesn't want to talk about those things either, but he needs to know.

Not today, but soon.

For today, he lets the conversation die and tries to take Sam's mind off of it with trivial stories from their years apart—as few and far between as those stories were.

He wishes that he could erase unwanted memories for both of them and take away the pain they've accumulated while apart, but he knows those memories are scars they'll both carry with them for the rest of their lives.

* * *

Dean sighs. This isn't… ideal, but it's something. He pushes the wheelchair back and forth a few times. It's creaky and unreliable at best, but they don't have much else. Besides, he thinks that Bobby would want his wheelchair to be used by someone he considered family.

It's a very real possibility that the wheelchair won't support Sam's weight, it hasn't exactly been well-kept over the years. In fact, Dean spent most of the time after Bobby's death pretending that it didn't exist. Keeping it out of sight made it easier to not think about Bobby.

"What are you doing, Dean?" David asks.

Dean looks over his shoulder at David and wheels the chair around to show him. "Trying to see if this thing can be useful or if it's only good for scraps at this point."

It's the only wheelchair in the village, but when someone is injured to the point that they would need it, they usually don't survive long enough to use it. Ever since Bobby's death, Dean's let it sit at the infirmary in case it would be needed one day.

He never thought that it would be Sam who would be its next user, not even in his wildest dreams (well, _maybe_ in his wildest dreams, where he could trick himself into believing that things would get better).

"For… Sam?" David asks, pausing before saying Sam's name, like he isn't sure where Dean is at in regards to him (not that Dean's given him any reasons to believe that he cares about Sam beyond the amount expected of him).

"Yeah."

David smiles. "I'm glad. You should really get him mobile. Let him see something other than the same four walls."

"I can't imagine that he doesn't wish he could crawl out of his own skin lying around all day. I know that's all I'd be able to think about," Dean says.

"Maybe take him out to get some sunlight," David says. "Sometimes the simple remedies are the best, and some fresh air and sunshine can do wonders."

"Yeah, well, simple remedies are all we really have these days."

"I guess so," David says. "Anyway, I'm glad that you're taking care of Sam, and hopefully reconnecting with him."

Dean shrugs. He doesn't want to talk to David about things this personal. The relationship—as tattered and ragged as it may be—between him and Sam was no one else's business.

"Has there been a lot of people needing treatment lately?" Dean asks, not hiding that he's changing the subject.

"Here and there," he says. "The usual cut or the sprained ankle that we can't do much more for besides wrap. I'm expecting more people to start coming in with fevers, but there's only so much we can do to help them these days."

"Beth is handling being the leader well?"

"Yeah, she's great. Driven and organized. Authoritative when she needs to be. No one messes with her."

Dean nods a few times, mostly to himself. "Good. That's good. I'm, uh, gonna get going."

He turns to leave with the wheelchair, but David stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"If you need help with anything, Dean, ask. If you need a minute to go for a walk and clear your head or anything else. There's no shortage of people here who would be willing to help you. You don't have to do this alone."

"No, I know I'm not alone," Dean says. "Thanks."

David grins and claps him once on the shoulder, then lets him leave without any further comments.

Dean breaths a sigh of relief once he leaves the infirmary. He hates talking to people who know why he stepped down and who Sam really is. They look at him like he needs help. Like he's someone to be pitied.

He knows that he's not alone. If he thinks about it, he never has been alone in his life. It's Sam who was alone. It's Sam who was alone enough to say 'yes' to The Devil.

No, Dean should be hated for being to blame for much of the world's current state, not pitied.

* * *

It's easier to focus on one day at a time and not think about Roanoke or Michael or how Sam ended up in that abandoned building, alive, but so injured and scarred.

He helps Sam with stretches, and he notices that they seem to be much easier now than when he first suggested trying them. Sam's face doesn't crinkle in pain and he doesn't make pitiful sounds in his throat that lead to Dean stopping early. He lets his limbs be moved farther and can withstand stretching for longer.

"Progress, right?"

Sam blinks once.

"You'll be on your feet in no time," Dean says.

Two blinks. Sam doesn't think that'll be happening.

Dean has to agree with him. They might be making progress, but they have so far to go before Sam will be able to start regaining his independence.

"Well, we'll get you there one day."

Sam blinks once again, but Dean suspects it's more to get him to shut up than actually giving an answer at this point. Getting back to his feet feels like an impossible task to Dean, he can't imagine how it feels for Sam.

A few knocks at the door draw Dean away from Sam's side long enough to let Cas enter.

"Dean," Cas says, hesitating before he steps into the cabin from the front porch.

"Cas, hey," Dean says. "I'm sorry about last time. I get it, you know? I get what it's like to need something—anything—to hold onto. To believe in."

"I should be apologizing," Cas says. "I was… overzealous at the realization that my connection to Heaven has been returning, and I wanted to be a part of that divine business again, to the point where I would have pressed Sam for answers that I don't need until he's ready to give them. The angels may have returned, but they didn't think twice about abandoning me. You and Bobby never considered leaving me behind."

"We're family, Cas," Dean says, like it explains everything. And to him, it does.

Cas smiles at that, but he turns serious quickly afterwards. "I actually came here because I think I'm strong enough to help Sam. Not to heal him completely, but to help. I'm not sure that he can be completely healed, not with that extent of burns and scar tissue covering him."

A surge of hope fills Dean to the point that he feels nauseous and dizzy. Angelic healing could do wonders in helping Sam be mobile and vocal again. Even if Cas can't heal him completely or has to help in parts, any help is better than Dean doing stretches with Sam and pretending that they'll make decent progress someday.

"Please," Dean says. "Do whatever you can. You have to help him."

Sam's miserable, and Dean is miserable watching him lie around trapped in his own body.

Cas nods and heads towards the bedroom Sam is in, Dean close behind him. There's a voice in the back of his head that's taking notice of the filth that covers the inside of his cabin and it tells him that he should clean the place up a bit, but he has more important things to take care of. He sees the wheelchair off to the side of his living room, and he wonders if Cas will be able to help Sam enough for Dean to be able to maneuver Sam into it without causing too much pain.

Sam looks between the two of them. Not scared (thankfully), just curious.

"Cas thinks that he might be able to help heal you a bit," Dean says.

The light and excitement that fills Sam's eyes reminds Dean of a much younger, more childlike Sam, and it breaks his heart that he can't remember the last time he saw that expression.

"Not fully," Cas says. "But it should be enough for you to notice the difference, if it would be alright."

Sam blinks once. Of course, it's alright with him for Cas to lay some angelic mojo on him. Why wouldn't it be?

"Do you mind if I put you to sleep first?" Cas asks. "I feel that it might be easier on both of us that way."

Sam blinks twice, and Cas takes that as his cue to touch to fingers to Sam's forehead.

Sam's eyes fall shut and his breathing deepens. Cas touches two fingers from each hand to either one of Sam's temples and focuses.

As always, the angelic healing doesn't take long and Cas removes his hands, but Dean doesn't see any visible differences.

"What the—?" Cas asks.

"What?" Dean asks. "Is there something really wrong? Something we can't see on the outside?"

"When angels heal or possess a vessel, they leave behind traces of their grace."

"And?"

"Well, I feel the remnants of Lucifer's grace within him, but there's the grace of another angel hidden behind it who must've healed him at some point between Lucifer's demise and now."

"Can you tell who?"

"No," Cas says. "You haven't encountered any other angels since we found Sam, have you?"

Dean shakes his head. "Of course not. I'm not sure they would come anywhere near me after I foiled their plans by refusing to let Michael wear me to the prom."

"Well, with the extent of injuries that Sam sustained and the fact that he's even alive, I'd guess that the angel that second grace belongs to is responsible for saving him," Cas says. "But I can't figure out who would do such a thing."

"No shit," Dean says. "I'm guessing there aren't many angels out there who care whether we live or die. You really can't tell whose grace it is?"

"I wish I could, Dean, but I can't."

Dean wants to punch something. He balls his hands into fists, but doesn't make a move to hit anything. Every time he tries to help Sam, he ends up with more questions.

Who the hell would heal Sam after Lucifer was expelled from his body?

"I hate this," Dean says. "I hate feeling like I'm working on a puzzle I don't have all the pieces for. Worse, like I'm working on a puzzle and someone keeps taking pieces away from me."

"All we can do is give it more time," Cas says.

Dean nods and watches Sam sleep, unaware of their conversation. If anyone has the answers Dean wants, it's Sam. But Sam isn't in the condition to answer those questions. Hell, he's afraid of some of the topics even related to those questions.

More time.

He has time, but he's anxious to hunt down Roanoke and finally end the nightmare that the existence of the Croats brings. To finally be able to help the world start healing.

"The angels talk about rebuilding with Lucifer gone now," Cas says. "I haven't been able to figure out the details of what they mean from tuning in and out of their conversations, but I'm hopeful that some of them have a fondness for Earth or a sense of obligation towards humans because of God's Will."

"God's Will…" Dean says. "Do you think that it's still His Will, or do you think that he's given up on humans like the angels tried to?"

"I have to believe that God—wherever He is now—still loves humans the same as He did when He first created them. I _need_ to believe in that."

Dean nods a few times. "I get that you need to hold onto that belief for yourself, but why wouldn't He intervene when things started getting bad?"

"I don't know, Dean. I'm sure He had His reasons."

Dean almost scoffs, but can't bring himself to. This is important to Cas. He needs this as much as Dean needs Sam to get better.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I hope so."

Neither of them say another word. Dean takes a seat on his bed and watches Sam, his slow breathing almost hypnotic. He hopes that Sam's dreams are filled with pleasant moments this time, or at least blissfully blank. Sam's dealt with enough nightmares since his return, and Dean is certain that there won't be an end to them in this lifetime.

Cas stands at the head of Sam's bed, watching him with an expression Dean can't completely read. The only thing he knows is that Cas' eyes are filled with questions as he looks at Sam.

Not that Dean can blame him. He has plenty of his own questions now, one in particular having risen to the top of his list after his conversation with Cas.

Which angel healed Sam?


	17. A God Among Men

He watches Sam's chest rise and fall, slow and steady. It's been hours—but feels like years—and his own eyes are begging him for rest, yet his body is abuzz with anticipation to see the effects of Cas' healing. While it took awhile for both of them to overcome the shock and confusion of there being another grace hidden behind the remnants of Lucifer's, Cas did manage to heal what he could with his limited power. Though what he's capable of healing and how effective it will be is something that neither of them know.

No, they won't know until Sam wakes up from his angel-induced sleep. So, Dean waits. And waits.

And waits.

Sitting in silence and watching Sam for the smallest indication that he's waking up leaves Dean with too much time to mull over the thoughts clouding his head.

There's an angel out there who, for whatever reason, cares enough about Sam to heal him. That angel is, Dean assumes, to thank for Sam being alive. Is Sam aware of this? Does he know which angel saved him from dying alongside Lucifer? Does the angel have an ulterior motive? Does the angel want to use Sam like all the other angels?

Does Sam think that this second chance at life is a gift, or are the hindrances of his body too much for him to be thankful towards the mystery angel? Does he want to be stuck here with Dean, or would he have been happier being left to die in the abandoned city where they found him?

Some of those answers Dean wants. Others, he decides, are better left unknown.

He should get some sleep while Sam is out, and he feels the exhaustion coursing through his body. The stress of not knowing how Cas' healing would go over and the shock of finding out that another angel is to thank for Sam being alive have taken their toll on his body. But he knows that sleep isn't going to come to him, at least not easily. And the dreams that are likely to be produced by his brain are the scenes he has no desire to see.

He digs the heels of his palms into his tired eyes. Every blink of his sandpaper eyelids makes them hurt a little more and makes it a little harder to open them once again.

But he does open them again with a deep breath that leaves him feeling like no oxygen has entered his lungs, and he continues his watch over Sam, who remains unaware of the world around him. It feels like he's watching over Sam as a child, the Sam who was blissfully ignorant of the supernatural world in which his dad and brother lived.

Sam might've been upset and felt betrayed when he found out that he was lied to for years, but he never understood what Dean would've given in order to experience what a semi-normal life felt like, no matter how pretend it might've been. The normalcy that he received was given to him when he was so young, he can't remember it beyond vague, inky memories that wash away all too quickly. Moments of sandwiches with the crusts carefully cut off and lullabies that never lasted.

The word 'ungrateful' flashes through his mind, and he remembers all the times that he gave Sam everything he had and didn't receive as much as a 'thank you'. Not that he expected or needed one, but the thought stirs up the lies that he's spent the last few years telling himself as he painted Sam into a villain. A heartless man who doomed the world out of his own selfishness. A man who didn't give a damn about anything, not even himself.

It's the lack of sleep, he tells himself. It's the strain of the emotions he's been forced to face that day. Sam became a vessel to save Dean, and could he ask for a greater show of unconditional love? Is such a thing possible?

No, he doesn't think it is.

His brother sacrificed the world for his sake; he can sacrifice a few hours of sleep for his brother's sake.

* * *

This is good for both of them, Dean thinks. It's a mild autumn day, likely one of few left to look forward to. Behind his cabin, he lets the sun soak into his skin, providing a warmth that offsets the slight chill in the air.

The wheelchair creaks and groans, but it holds steady under Sam's weight, and that's the most that either of them can ask for. They're lucky it's usable at all with how long it's been left to sit and rust without Bobby around to use it. But he got Sam into it and covered him with one of the blankets from the bed for good measure.

It's a blessing that Cas has managed to heal Sam even the small bit that he did. Being able to work with a Sam who can bear a portion of his own weight and is more pliable with less pain makes Dean's job easier than he imagined it would be any time in the near future.

Dean takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air and only now realizing how stale the air within his cabin is. He should really open the windows, or leave the door open for a bit to air it out. How has Sam managed being stuck in there for so long? How many complaints were trapped within his mind because he's become a prisoner in his own body?

It's not something Dean likes to think about, but at least he's gotten Sam out for air. There aren't many remedies he's able to offer Sam in this world, but there are the simplest ones. Fresh air. Sunshine. Angelic healing (well, that one Dean's taken for granted for a long time before he realized just how much they relied on it when Cas lost his connection to Heaven).

"This is nice, isn't it?" Dean asks. "Reconnecting with nature and all that hippy junk."

Unfortunately, verbal communication seems to be out of the question for now. Cas must have found other wounds that required his attention more than the damage that prevents Sam from properly communicating with speech.

But Sam can nod easier, and he does. It is nice, especially after being inside for so long.

He sits on the grass beside Sam, and it no longer feels like they're living in a world ravaged by vengeful angels and demonic viruses—the battleground for a war between Heaven and Hell. It feels like they haven't been apart for years, like Sam never said 'yes'. Like Lucifer was never freed and the biggest of their problems was on a level they could deal with, nothing more than run-of-the-mill ghosts and ghouls.

He wishes he could freeze this moment and the sense of normalcy it brings with it. He wishes he could turn back time and change everything. He wishes he could turn back time and change _anything_.

But life doesn't work that way, and he knows that. Yet that knowledge doesn't keep him from dreaming, especially when it feels like dreaming is the one respite he has left.

_Sam is young enough to be easily entertained, but not old enough to be allowed to wander around the park on his own. With their experiences with the supernatural, he doubts that Sam will ever be allowed to do things on his own. Their dad has always taken an extreme interest in Sam being supervised and safe. While Dean has wondered about why Sam seems to need more protection than their dad believes Dean needs, he never dares to open his mouth to ask why. He does what he's told, especially after what happened in Wisconsin._

_It's a part of his life that many would consider crazy, and he accepts it as such. Besides, he doesn't want Sam to be hurt anymore than John does, why would he complain about being an extra layer of shielding between Sam and danger?_

_With a sigh, he watches the clouds roll above him as he lies on the grass. He might be there for Sam, but that doesn't mean he's about to go play pirate with a bunch of kids swinging sticks around like sword-slinging swashbucklers._

_No, there are limits to what he's willing to do for Sam, and playing pretend crosses his line. It's tough enough for him to pretend that they live some semblance of a normal life, and that their dad is just a mechanic or a door-to-door salesman._

_He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of dew-dampened grass and families cooking out on the grills in the park. Laughter and the bright tones of pleasant conversations reach his ears on the light breeze that rustles the tree branches overflowing with deep green leaves._

_He has inky memories—the kind that are like oil paintings splashed with water to make the colors drain away and the image grow vague—of sitting under the shade of a tree older than he could ever hope to be in a park, his mother beside him and running her soft hands through his hair while she asks him what he wants to spend the rest of the day doing. While she laughs and tells him that he tuckered himself out too quickly with all that monkeying around the jungle gym._

_An outcry in a voice that he knows as unequivocally Sam's tears him from the warmth of his memories and has him moving before he registers what the problem is. All that matters is that there_ is _a problem._

_Yet he doesn't make it halfway to Sam when his brain catches up and he sees Sam picking himself up from the ground and brushing himself off of dirt and grass. He's laughing and playing again while Dean stands on the sidelines, watching. His heart is beating too quickly, and he knows that only time will convince it that there is no true danger. Sam fell, and it's so innocuous that it was the last possibility to cross his mind._

_He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, hating what his life has become._

"It's been a long time since we had a moment to sit in the sun," Dean says, trying to keep his mind off his resurfacing memories. He leaves out that he never thought that they would have a moment together again in this lifetime, but Sam's always been full of surprises—good and bad.

Sam doesn't respond, not that Dean expects him to.

The sun feels cold, and Dean knows that they can't spend much longer outside. The burn scars marring Sam's skin are hideous, but they also signal that there's deeper damage beyond them, and Dean's not equipped to know the specifics. All he can do is try to keep Sam from too much exposure to sunlight, heat, cold, and anything else. Which will be impossible if— _when—_ Sam regains his independence.

"We should go back inside," Dean says, but he makes no move to follow up on his own suggestion.

Are a few more moments of peace too much to ask for?

* * *

He goes to see Rooster again for a second helping from his solitary supply of booze, feeling like he deserves a little break of his own.

"Why share any of this with me? You don't have enough to keep a steady supply for yourself," Dean says.

"Everyone here owes you one for keeping us going for so long," Rooster says. "Including me, and this is the best I can offer."

"I never wanted anything in return. I did what needed to be done, and nothing else."

"Those are the traits of a real hero," Rooster says, sincerity and simplicity clear in his voice.

"I'm not a hero," Dean says. He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. "I'm really, really not."

Rooster—along with everyone else in the village aside from Cas—has no idea about the true mucked-up, fucked-up story of how the world ended. They don't understand the weight of the role Dean played, or that he may have been the biggest influence that led to the outbreak of Croats and Lucifer's reign of terror. They see him as a good guy, when he's one of the worst.

Rooster shrugs and changes the subject, for which Dean is thankful. "Should probably say something to the others."

"Say what? And why?"

"They wonder what happened to you. You give up leadership and vanish. Don't matter to me what you do with your time, but not everyone is like me."

"If everyone was like you, I'd never have to spend another hour sober," Dean says. "I don't have anything to say to them."

"You always end up making the right choice," Rooster says. "Don't see why this would be any different."

Rooster raises his glass of moonshine. "But you seem lighter these days. Cheers to that."

Dean raises a glass of his own, but doesn't take a drink from it. "Cheers."

Rooster has no idea how wrong he is. Dean isn't sure that he's ever made the right choice.

* * *

Dean sits at the kitchen table with Cas and Sam, who is using all of his effort to remain sitting in a real chair and stack cups upside-down on the table. When Annette first suggested it to him as a motor control exercise for Sam, he thought it sounded crazy. Stacking a bunch of cups upside-down into some sort of tower? How could that be useful?

But he found some plastic cups regardless and told Sam about Annette's suggestion. Then, he watched Sam struggle to even flip them over at first.

Now, Sam can stack them to a second level, and Dean almost smiles at the sight of Sam's proud half smile. He might have to use his unburned arm and every ounce of willpower in his body, but he's making progress.

Cas notices Sam's progress as well—thanks to his healing—and lets them know that he will be able to help more soon, once he's able to regenerate enough power, but that's not the reason he came to pay them a visit. Because there's always something that has to be done or discussed and the world can't fucking leave them alone for a while.

There's a long stretch of silence—which Dean finds quite peaceful—before Cas speaks about his reason for the visit.

"The angels have been talking," Cas says.

"Yeah? Well, that always seems to get us in a new mess."

The words come out before he thinks about them, and Cas looks stricken by the unintentional harshness in Dean's voice, recoiling in his chair with a wince.

"They're looking for God," he says, stressing each word like it makes a difference.

"Haven't they been looking for God since the moment he disappeared?"

"Not like this," Cas says. "They believe that he's somewhere on Earth. They think that he's been hiding on Earth the whole time, out of all the places in this universe or any other that he could've chosen. Right under our noses all along."

"And?"

Cas looks both surprised and confused by Dean's question. "What?"

"Well, why are you telling me?"

"I thought you'd want to know."

Dean laughs, but it's more of a snort than anything, full of disdain and mockery. "If I cared any less, I'd be dead. He left us all behind and let his children wreck Earth without lifting a damn finger to stop it."

"He could also rebuild all of it if he wanted to. He's the only one strong enough to do so."

"You're wrong," Dean says. "He's not the only one strong enough. You're forgetting that humans can be as strong as we need to be. It might not be as easy or as quick for us to fix this mess as it would be for him. But we've crawled out of other dark periods in our history, we can crawl out of this and be better for it as well."

Cas doesn't say anything, but Dean adds on after a pause, "At least until we destroy ourselves again. Just all part of the same cycle."

"It doesn't have to be a cycle that keeps repeating itself," Cas says.

"No, it doesn't. But that's the way it _is_. Humans are always going to find themselves in the same place at different times. I just hope that I'm long dead by the time the next catastrophe rolls around."

"You don't want to find God?"

"No," Dean says. "I don't want to talk to someone who's okay with letting the world go to shit."

"You might change your mind."

Dean doesn't reply to that. Cas needs this thread of hope. Cas needs this purpose, and he's the one who needs answers from God, not Dean.

Dean meets Sam's eyes. He's stopped working on stacking the cups, and Dean wonders what sort of questions hide in those eyes that Sam is unable to articulate yet. There's too much for them to deal with, and Dean knows that Sam would be more likely to want to speak with God than Dean. Sam is more likely to throw himself into the fray once again.

Sam is the one who would want to hunt down Roanoke to save people who will never know his name. He's the one who would want to hunt down the God he once believed had to exist because there's so much evil in the world, he felt like he was drowning in it.

Dean wants to stay in his own bubble, free of responsibility and able to take the time to recuperate after years of constant strife and pain.

Cas excuses himself and leaves the cabin. Dean stays at the table across from Sam and watches his stack of cups tumble over, one rolling away and falling to the floor.

* * *


	18. As We Lay Dying

It's winter a few months later when Dean feels his frustration drawing close to a cliff's edge, ready to plummet into the abyss on the other side. He's toeing the line between losing it again and taking out his pent up, bottled up anger on Sam. But he knows he isn't the only one struggling to keep his feelings in check, not in the middle of winter.

They're all a little on edge this time of year—the entire village. They don't have the lush green reminders of the world of nature around them, the plants and farms that show them, visibly, the promise of food. Of sustenance.

Of life.

The villagers create trails in the dusting of snow that covers the paths, and everything around them. They walk hunched in on themselves, like that will be enough to either keep them warm or allow them to phase out of existence completely and find a better world.

If only it worked that way.

He never thought he'd miss the rattling radiators in the endless motel rooms that made up his childhood with the burning scent that meant they were working, but even the spotty, unreliable warmth from them would be better than nothing. The nothing that they have.

Well, not nothing. They have the wood burning stoves that they use for cooking, but those rely on the village having an adequate supply of firewood. They rely on things that can't always be controlled. The unpredictable and volatile.

What Dean wouldn't give for a semblance of control in this world.

Instead, he's stuck sharing his cabin with not only Sam, but with Cas and Chuck as well. For the winter, at least. They have to conserve firewood where they can, and that means stuffing as many bodies into each cabin until spring returns, hoping they don't all hate each other by that point.

Castiel and Chuck try to fit into the cabin without being too intrusive on Dean's reforming relationship with Sam, but with the limited space it's difficult not to. Most of the women in the village refuse to bother with him because of how many times he's scorned them. If he'd thought it out better earlier on, he could spend his winter with a beautiful woman instead of the cabin of misfits they've become.

Because of their new—and temporary, Dean will ensure—living situation, Dean finds himself stepping into the chilly outside air for a breath of relief. He wonders if the frigid temperature of the air is freezing the fragile, inner constructs of his lungs, but he can't bring himself to care. Holding onto the last shreds of his sanity is more important than the effects of this lifestyle on his body. With the way things are these days, he isn't planning to make it past age fifty—and he'll reach fifty only if he's lucky.

He leans against the wall beside the front door to his cabin. The cold pierces deeply, past his skin and flesh until it reaches his bones, but he's too numb to feel it anymore.

He crosses his arms over his chest and stares into the wilderness beyond the village; the place where they find an abundance of food and wild game in the warmer months. The piece of him that resents Sam wants to run into those bare trees and disappear. The piece of him that Cas and Chuck and everyone else force him to bury and ignore. While a larger piece of him will always see Sam as his beloved younger brother, the more rational, smaller buried piece knows that they can never have the relationship they once did. Too much is broken to repair. They can bandage themselves all they want, but the ugly scars remain.

This is Sam's doing. They tell him that it was for his own sake, that Sam did it for him. There's truth to those sentiments, Dean won't deny it, but in the end, it was Sam's decision.

Dean in Hell, or a world in Hell.

A mother and her child walk past him, huddled together like a conjoined entity. They wrap threadbare blankets with faded colors around themselves as they head to the dining hall for a meal with slow steps, careful not to trip each other.

Sam should've chosen to save the world.

* * *

He hears the crunch of gravel underfoot and feels the uneven pieces stab through the worn sole of his shoe. If he's lucky, he'll find a pair in better condition and a close enough size to be wearable. But he keeps his hope suppressed. He's learned not to hold onto hopes, dreams, wishes, and other such silly feelings.

It's the same need for frequent breaks of fresh air that has driven him to joining in on a supply run. Not as a leader—he's given up that title for the foreseeable future—but as a regular grunt.

A grunt all too aware that he will never be seen as _only_ a grunt. He'll never be seen as just another man from the village joining in the supply run for one reason or another. There's a label printed on him in ink invisible to his own eyes, but it shows up like a neon sign to the eyes of others.

Leader.

The men and women who've opted to join the supply run send glances at him in the discrete way that lets him know they're trying—and failing—to not make it obvious. This isn't his mission. He doesn't know the details about where they're going or what they need to find the most, though he has his guesses.

He shuffles along beside the other villagers following Beth's lead, his eyes staring straight ahead. The vehicles they used to get to the city grow smaller every time he looks over his shoulder, and that leaves an unusual rock of dread in his stomach.

He brushes it off as his worrying over leaving Sam in the care of Cas and Chuck, who have Annette and David close by in case they should need help. But they shouldn't need help. They took care of Sam in worse conditions when Dean was unwilling to step up and do it himself.

He sees the buildings of the ruined city rising in the distance, each building—which might have been towering in the past—in a varying state of decay and crumbling. It's not unusual—though no less disturbing—to notice the silence that encases the city as they approach. In a way, it reminds him of the threat the Croats pose. How human they are to be able to hide themselves and sneak up on someone.

And how the one thing separating them from being human is some strange infection of their blood. A demonic disease.

_A door separates him from Sam. A fucking door is all that stands between him and his brother, who's being assaulted by the nurse who fooled them into believing that she was just as panicked, if not more-so, about the situation as the rest of them._

_And Dean believed her. And now Sam is trapped with one of those fucked up people who lash out and infect others with a disease that he's never encountered before._

_Then, Sam sits on the exam table, ice pack pressed to his chest and tears running down his face. He knows—they both know—that this is it. He's infected, there's no way that nurse didn't get her blood into his wound. That means game over. Sam wants to go quietly, alone in the room of a clinic with a bang that no one hears._

_He begs Dean for a gun, and Dean knows that handing it over means that it's the end of the line for them. He thought he lost Sam the night he left for Stanford, but Sam being at Stanford meant that Sam was still alive._

_If Sam goes, Dean goes, too._

He hoped that he would never encounter it again after that mess years ago. The terrifying mess in which he nearly lost Sam. He tried so hard to put it out of his mind, which proved impossible with their father's last words lingering in his ears.

Well, he lost Sam anyway and he's forced to encounter the Croats on a near daily basis now, whether directly or through the changes humanity has had to make because of them.

Once they reach the city, they split off into groups. With the odd number of bodies tagging along, Dean volunteers to go solo. He doesn't care for groups of three, and at the moment, the thought of a group of two feels stifling. Besides, he'd rather be the odd man out than send anyone else off on their own.

So he tells himself.

He walks on the sides of the roads where sidewalks may have once been, but it's difficult to tell what the original layout looked like. That's been the case for years now, but Dean hasn't left the confines of the village for so long, he's nearly forgotten the dilapidated state of the world beyond their fence. He almost fooled himself into thinking things were different. Better.

Dust rises from beneath his feet with each step on uneven ground, irritating his throat and eyes. It's concrete, most likely, worn down from years of disrepair and the crumbling of the nearby buildings until it's nothing more than dust. It's normal, but something's not right.

The silence. Where are the Croats? In a city the size this one once was, it should be crawling with Croats. Yet, Dean hasn't seen one. He hasn't heard any indication that one might be in the area.

He tries to ignore the silence, but it sticks to his nerves. He swats it away like a pesky bug, but the continual buzz refuses to be beaten.

It could be that the Croats have, for one reason or another, been wiped out. Perhaps they vacated the city of their own accord. But both of those possibilities seem to be impossible in Dean's opinion. Years of exhibiting the same behavior, why would they change now?

Dean's mind has no shortage of ideas that could answer his own question.

Lucifer is dead.

The Croats were not wiped out with him, but maybe their numbers dwindled somehow in the aftermath.

Roanoke has his own plan and needs to mobilize Croats for it in a specific manner.

No, he doesn't like the implications that the disturbing lack of Croats brings.

He ducks behind a nook of concrete, something that may have once been the corner of a building, but it's too destroyed to know anymore. He listens and waits. He hears wind whistling over his head, disturbing the debris scattered on the shattered streets. Beyond that, he hears no sign of life.

Stepping out from his small bit of cover, Dean walks down the street once again. He doubts they'll find anything useful, but he's almost foolish enough to hold onto a dim hope otherwise.

To return empty-handed means to admit to the reality that there are fewer and fewer places that have yet to be picked over completely by the surviving humans, or destroyed by the Croats over the years. Each supply run brings with it more risk. The farther they have to go, the more time they waste. The more fuel they use in a world on its last legs in regards to resources. The less likely it is they make it back in a timely manner, and with equipment that can help them hold on for a little longer.

He hates to think about the risks, but they're part of the reality. If they aren't already, they'll soon have to figure out a way to be a self-sufficient village. No help from the outside world. No remnants of the old world's technology to help them with tasks or problems for which they have yet to find an alternate solution.

He enters what looks like it might have been a market once, the sign half-hanging above the doors. The doors once used to slide open to greet customers, but now they tilt off their hinges with their glass frames shattered, leaving behind only sharp edges.

Dean steps through and immediately realizes how futile this trip is. The shelves are bare and dusty. He lifts a dented can from what must have been the soup aisle, surprised at the lack of weight until he turns it over and sees it's been opened and emptied.

Resisting the urge to throw the can and risk attracting attention to himself, he sets it back on the shelf and moves along, careful not to step on any of the debris littering the floor.

He finds nothing of use and leaves the old store as quickly as he entered it, a weight settling in his stomach. It's no longer his responsibility when a supply run turns up nothing, but the knowledge of this failure still hurts. He hopes that the others have more luck than him.

* * *

He's circled his area for what feels like hours, the city's layout turning him back around to the place he began. Again and again, he finds himself completing a loop. When he hears a scream and gunshots, he darts in the direction of the sounds. The one sense of direction he's ever needed.

He skids to a stop at the scene, but regains his bearings after a quick scan of what's happening.

Beth crouches over… someone. It's one of the men, Dean knows that, but his face is bloodied to the point of being unrecognizable. Despite that, it's clear that the multiple knife wounds littering his torso, oozing out a slow stream of blood, are the true cause of his death.

Death. Dean knows it to be the reality because the man's chest isn't rising. There are no ragged breaths being laboriously taken. Beth's tears fall onto the man's face, clearing out trails of skin amongst the mess.

Across from them, lying prone on the ground, is the Croat. The gunshot wound in the center of his chest has to be the work of Beth's impeccable aim. Its eyes are open and it looks more human than monster like that.

"We didn't hear him," Beth says through choked breaths. "We didn't hear him until he was right there. Zach pushed me out of the way."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, though it isn't much to offer.

He crouches next to Beth and tentatively places a hand on her shoulder. She isn't one for such a show of emotion, but there was something between her and Zach. He never asked for the details about it, but it must have been serious to draw out this sort of reaction.

When was the last time he cared so much about another human as to react so vehemently to their passing? Sam's leaving was tough, but never like this. Sam saying 'Yes' to Lucifer was tougher, but Dean didn't have to hold Sam's broken body in his arms at that moment. Sam felt worlds away back then.

He looks around, seeing the other villagers beginning to make their way towards them from other areas of the city. Given more time, they might have been able to find something useful, but it seems that none of them managed to venture far enough away from each other to do so. At least, they all stayed within range to hear Zach's violent death.

Dean stands up and faces them in Beth's place as they gather around.

"We have to get his body back to the vehicles and head out," he says. "It isn't worth staying here to look around. Besides, it's going to be dark soon and they'll have the upper hand."

He gets a few nods of agreement and those who overcome their shock set into motion and help him. He doesn't blame those who stand and gawk. It's become more and more rare for them to lose someone on a supply run.

Their grim faces tell him that they have to figure out a plan for the future soon.

* * *

Beth is quiet for most of the ride, sitting beside Dean in one of the trucks. He expects the silence. Losing someone makes the world grey. It takes words away, because what's the point in saying anything without that person in the world to hear them?

But Beth surprises him when they're about halfway back to the village, breaking the silence that he let her wrap herself within.

"The Croat was rambling after he got to Zach," she says, her voice quiet.

"Yeah?"

"Most of it sounded like complete nonsense, like it knew it was dying and all the last thoughts it had were pouring out of its mouth. If it was capable of having last thoughts anymore."

He's not sure if she has a point that she's coming to, or if she's just vomiting words. If this is what she needs, this moment to say whatever is on her mind, Dean won't be the one to take it away from her.

"But there was one thing that he kept saying over and over in the middle of his nonsense. I don't know what it means or why he would say it so much."

"What was it?" Dean asks.

"Roanoke."


	19. Road to Roanoke

He slams his empty glass on the rickety table, harder than intended. The shock of such sudden sound startles Sam, sitting next to him, and he straightens in his chair as much as he can, staring at Dean with eyes wide (one as wide as it's able to be these days with the horrific burns covering half of Sam's body).

Dean mumbles an apology and rests his head in his hands. He longs for whiskey in a dying world, a glass of water doing nothing to provide relief. He wants the burn in his throat and the promise that—if he drinks enough—he can forget his own name. Those unfamiliar with his life's circumstances might call it alcoholism. He calls it survival. A tenuous connection to sanity.

Sam's hand brushes against the thin, faded flannel of his sleeve before it falls away to his side again. In a different life, Sam would've laid his hand on Dean's shoulder in a solid gesture of comfort. An offer for Dean to talk out whatever what bothering him to the point of trying to drown it—which, if they were honest, didn't take much. An offer of company, at the very least. Enough to let him know that he wasn't alone.

But Sam was the talker between the two of them. _Was_. Now, he struggles to get out the words he needs to say, no matter how few they may be. Not in the sense that he's unable to talk. No, it just takes time and patience, and Sam's never had patience for himself. He's never believed that he was worth his own efforts.

Dean wonders, for a moment, if Sam still believes that he's not worth the effort he puts towards helping others. He assumes so. Why would that have changed, of all things?

Dean shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about himself or Sam at the moment. An innocent man is dead, and they're the ones who doomed the world by throwing it into its current state. All the deaths that have happened since the start of the Apocalypse is on them. They have enough blood on their hands that—if they ring them out like towels—they could fill the damn Grand Canyon.

They couldn't learn to let each other fucking go, could they? All those years, all those deals, they never learned that they weren't worth more than the safety of the entire world, could they?

Isn't that what Zachariah tried to beat into his head during those first years until the angels gave up on him and the rest of the world?

"This is all our fault," Dean says, though he doesn't know who deserves more of the blame.

When he looks at Sam, he suspects that he's blaming himself more than anyone.

* * *

Dean stands with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the open space where they burn their dead on pyres. A solemn place, the closest to the sanctity of a chapel or church that they have for the village. At first, it was for convenience and out of precaution, when the Croats were thought of as people who had a regular disease. Like it was nothing more than a new form of the plague that would run its course before the world got to move on again.

But it isn't like the plague. It's demonic. Now, the pyres were done out of habit, or in Dean's eyes, out of hunter tradition.

Other than for pyres, hunting, and supply runs, there isn't much use in traveling beyond the village's fence. There isn't much use in taking the risk of facing the world beyond for anything else. But Dean feels a modicum of peace staring into the wilderness surrounding them. The natural forces around them. He's never been one to underestimate the brutality of nature, always knowing the dangers of hunts in the woods. Temperature. Weather. Shelter. Food and water.

He remembers all the effort he wasted to convince Sam on those hunts that they'd be alright. That he had it taken care of and he'd handle it, but Sam never listened.

Sam never _listened._

And Dean thinks that hasn't changed. A lot about them has changed, but Dean's watched Sam struggle through his recovery already, and that damned stubbornness of his is still there.

"I didn't expect to find you out here."

Dean, pulled from his thoughts, turns and watches Beth step towards him from the village's gate, listening to the scrape of her falling apart leather boots on the gravelly path.

"Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual," he says.

"It's nice to be able to think without anyone's eyes on me," Beth says. "You know, someplace where I can take a breath of fresh air and have a moment to myself. Pay my respects."

"I get that."

Beth nods a few times, turning away to stare at the pyre area with him. "Yeah, I know you do."

They stay silent for a moment, letting the soft susurrus of the leaves on the wind fill in for spoken words. Dean shoves his hands into the pockets of his overly worn jeans, wondering what the fuck they're supposed to do when all the clothing they have is left in frays. Someone has to be skilled in tailoring or some shit, right? How did the people in the past figure it all out?

How the fuck are they ever supposed to get the world back on the right track after the Apocalypse?

They still have to deal with Roanoke first, he reminds himself. The most they can do is take it one step at a time.

"You ever think about the old days? Before all this?" Beth asks.

"Course."

Dean fails to mention that the old days are constantly shoved in his face with Sam's presence, and he's not sure if he misses them as much as he should. Yeah, things were good between them… until they weren't. All the lies and the deals and the secrets… sometimes it's nicer to have a silent Sam to deal with.

He looks back and wonders where it all went wrong… and if it could've ever gone right. Would it have ever been possible for them to find a path that avoiding this disaster, or would it have been one disaster after the next like their entire lives had been? A mess of choices that would always culminate to the very same point. The very same future.

"You think there's a way to go back to the old days?"

Dean shrugs. "Completely? I don't know. Probably not. But I might know of a starting point."

"That's better than nothing."

"I'm sorry about Zach, by the way."

It's Beth's turn to shrug at that. She keeps her eyes on the ground with a mirthless smile. "I tried telling myself that I shouldn't have brought him along on the run, but if it hadn't been him, it would've been somebody else. No matter what, it ends in a lose-lose situation."

"Yeah, that's the story of the world these days."

"How did you put up with it for so long?" Beth asks. "Being the leader and taking every hit as an added weight to your shoulders."

"I didn't try to become the leader of this place. It just happened. Eventually, I felt like I deserved to have that misery put on me."

"Why? No one deserves this. We put up with it, sure, but that's not the same as deserving it," Beth says.

"You're awfully talkative today," Dean says. Call him an alcoholic, but he wishes he could've been hammered before he had the chance to as much as sit at the table with Sam. God, he wants a drink. Hell, he wants to drink a liquor store.

"And you're trying to avoid my question."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Beth. If you did, you'd agree."

She's quiet, but speaks up as Dean's about to walk away.

"Why'd you choose me to lead?"

"I knew you could handle it. You're a lot like me."

Dean takes one step away, seeing the small smile gracing her face.

"That's not a compliment," he says. "I'm not somebody you want to be."

She looks up at him, smile wiped away and replaced by surprise. Dean puts his hand on her shoulder, gives her a nod, and turns away.

"That's a lie, you know," she says.

Dean looks at her over his shoulder.

"It's not that others shouldn't be like you. It's that you don't want to be the person you are."

Dean turns his back on her and walks back into the village, everybody going on about their day and not paying him much mind, if any.

He can't walk away from the fact that Beth isn't wrong.

Why would he want to be this person he's become?

* * *

Dean leans against the frame of the door with his arms crossed over his chest. Cas has been better with helping Sam with motor control since the moment they found him in that abandoned shit-hole city, left for dead. He has the patience that Dean's lost somewhere over the years.

Though if Dean's being honest with himself, he lost that patience years before the mess of the Apocalypse started.

_He wakes up when it's dark in the room, knowing that he won't be able to get back to sleep. He feels his skin being peeled from his muscles, then his muscles being peeled from his bones. He runs his hands over his arms, then over his calves and ending with his stomach making sure that all of his pieces were in place. The dream might have faded when he woke up, but the pain didn't. The night sweats have him in a state of feeling too warm and too cold all at once, and it might be the most he's felt since crawling out of his own grave._

_He rolls over, cheap, papery motel sheets clinging to him, to look at the second bed._

_Empty._

_No, not just empty. Not empty in the sense that Sam might be in the bathroom or has stepped out for a bit of fresh air. It's empty in the sense that Sam hasn't fucking laid in that bed at all. It's perfectly made and as clean—or not—as it was when they got the keys to their room._

_He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. This is happening too often. It's like Sam can't stand to be around him anymore, and when they're in the same room, Sam is miles away._

_He doesn't know what he's done wrong, and Sam doesn't want him around. Not that he can object to Dean's presence. He only sold his soul for him. Spent forty years in Hell for him. Fucking raised him with minimal resources and support._

_Sam's making it perfectly clear that he doesn't give a shit about Dean, and Dean's becoming grateful for the alone time he gets from it. If Sam doesn't want his help or guidance, there's not much that Dean can do about it._

_Sam thinks he doesn't need him? Fine. Let him pretend that he's independent and alright on his own._

_Dean knows that he's always needed Sam more than Sam needs him._

Cas doesn't get frustrated as easily, at least not now that he's off of drugs. It's probably due to that angelic ego that's started returning along side his connection to Heaven. No, Dean doesn't necessarily hate that fact, but he holds a grudge towards angels these days. How they ended up with the reputation of being guardians and protectors, he'll never know.

But Cas has always been different from the rest of the angels. More sympathetic towards humans… well, after the initial process of getting to know some humans.

Yes, there are other things he could be doing, but he needs to ask Sam about Roanoke. Are the memories painful for Sam? Do they haunt him while he's unable to adequately, or easily, share them? He doesn't have a clue, and there's part of him that doesn't care. A larger part than he would like to admit.

And how does he expect Sam to get all that information out when he struggles to get his body to obey him in the smallest matters? Sure, he's made a lot of progress since they first found him, but that doesn't mean he's anywhere close to being a fully functional person again.

Dean knocks his head against the door frame with a dull thud. Maybe he should've stayed the leader of the village and let Cas and Chuck take all the responsibility of caring for Sam. It would've been easier. As leader, he always knew how to handle situations and make the best of the bad ones.

Here, he's clueless.

* * *

He waits until after he's helped Cas settle Sam in the bedroom, their therapy session completed for the day. It's late, but the buzz of curiosity keeps Dean energized. Sleep is a distant wish until he has his answers, and depending on the answers it may still not come.

"I need you to tell me what you know about Roanoke," Dean says.

Sam looks at him with surprised eyes, a hint of questioning in them.

"It's the only way we can start to recover from this nightmare of however many years. We can't rebuild shit until we know the Croats are gone for good."

Sam opens his mouth, but Cas cuts him off before he can get any words out.

"With my power returning, I could sift through Sam's memories for information about Roanoke," he says. He turns to Sam. "It would be a lot easier on you than trying to vocalize that much at once."

Dean shrugs and gestures at Sam. "His choice."

Sam nods, a quick jerk of his head.

"Alright, then you'll want to close your eyes and think of all you know about Roanoke," Cas says. As an afterthought, he adds, "This may feel strange or even mildly painful, but I need you to refrain from fighting my presence."

Sam's been through enough that Dean can't imagine an angelic memory search can conjure up enough pain to bother him. Maybe for others who haven't had to live through the same shit as them.

Cas puts his hands on either side of Sam's head, and Dean takes a seat on his own bed, watching. The faint glow emanating from Cas' hands remind Dean of simpler times, though they sure as hell didn't feel simple at the time. Times where they could be healed from their wounds with a touch and help was a prayer away.

He's useless while Cas sifts through Sam's head. He tries not to stare, but what else is he supposed to do? There isn't exactly television these days to pass the time.

So he waits, twiddling his thumbs for the entire minute it takes for him to get bored. Then, he moves onto bouncing his legs on the balls of his feet.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Cas steps back from Sam with a long sigh.

"Well?" Dean asks. "How do we find Roanoke? More importantly, how do we kill him?"

"Let's talk about it in the kitchen," Cas says. "I'm sure Sam could use some rest, and we won't discuss anything he doesn't know already."

Dean doesn't care either way, but he follows Cas out of the room, waits for him to shut the bedroom door, and sits across from him at the table.

"So?" Dean asks.

Cas rests his head in one of his hands. "Sorry, memories are difficult to sift through accurately. I saw a lot in that short time."

"Did you see how to kill Roanoke? Or how to find him?"

"He's a strong demon," Cas says. "I don't think Ruby's knife will be able to kill him, but perhaps an angel blade could."

"That's a start. How do we find him?"

"Sam's memories weren't clear enough for me to determine where Roanoke is or if he moves now that his virus has ravaged most of the planet. It's possible that we could figure out a tracking ritual or get help from one of the returning angels."

"What angel is gonna wanna help us?" Dean asks. "We've never been on their good side."

"Yet one cared enough to save Sam. It's not impossible."

"Which one?"

"I couldn't tell from the memories I saw, but if Sam allows me to wander through his mind again, I may be able to find out."

"Okay, anything else I should know?" Dean asks.

"Nothing that you would like to hear."

"Which means that I should hear it. So spit it out."

Cas looks more human than angel in moments like these, where his internal turmoil bubbles to the surface. It's a nice reminder that his humanity isn't being wiped away fully by the return of his power.

"Did you and Sam have another brother?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Sam's memories referred to another brother I was not aware of," Cas asks.

"Half-brother, but there's no way that he could be in those memories."

"He was," Cas says. "I'm sure of it, and Sam is, too."

"Okay, then why and how was he there?"

"Michael needed a strong vessel to contain him," Cas says.

No.

"Otherwise his vessel would have exploded before he could move—"

"Cas," Dean says, his tone low in warning. "Don't you say it."

"—or it wouldn't have been strong enough to face Lucifer, had he made it there."

"You better not fucking say it, Cas."

Cas isn't about to listen to him, though Dean knows that he's the unwilling messenger in this situation.

"You always refused, so Michael used the boy that Sam denotes as being his brother in his memories. Adam."

Dean stands up, grips the edge of the kitchen table, and shoves it violently to the side so it lands tilted on the ground away from either of them.

"Fuck!"

He turns away and heads out the cabin door, passing a bewildered Sam standing in the bedroom doorway after having been likely startled by Dean's outburst. Dean pays him no more attention than a quick glance. He needs the chill of the night air.

He's glad for the information about Roanoke, but…

How could they have gotten Adam roped into this shit-show Apocalypse?

"Adam…"


	20. A Path

Punching trees isn't the kind of anger management therapy that a licensed therapist would recommend, but that doesn't stop Dean from standing on the outskirts of the village with bloody knuckles riddled with splintered tree bark and a chest heaving to catch breath that feels impossible for his body to process.

There's a knee-jerk reaction to demand Sam tells him why he didn't mention anything about Adam before now, but he fights to quell it. He has several guesses.

The primary guess being that Sam knows he hasn't exactly been listening.

He almost laughs, wondering if this is all some sick punishment the angels devised for his refusal to be part of their grand scheme to create 'paradise' on Earth. Is this the paradise they envisioned?

Take care of the brother you've spent years convincing yourself to hate. Learn to not only survive, but to keep others alive as well. Others who can't take care of themselves.

Learn that the brother your father kept hidden was forced to take your place in the Apocalypse. That he was forced to duke it out with his brother as well.

He sighs and rests his forehead against the tree he used as a punching bag. His dad would be pissed at him right about now. Hell, who is he kidding? His dad would have been pissed at him for a long time by now.

All he ever wanted was to be like John. He imitated him in every possible way. Listened to the same music, wore the same styles of clothing. Embraced hunting and held onto John's words like they were the gospel. But Sam was the apple that hadn't fallen far from the tree. Sam was his father's son. He was the precious one who couldn't be left alone. The one who always needed to be protected.

Not Dean.

No, Dean isn't the son that John wanted (he never has been), and he's always been aware of that fact, no matter how much he tucked it away and pretended otherwise.

And in all the places where he's made mistakes over the years, John would have made the right choices. He would have prevented this mess from happening because while he loved them, he also knew how to let go of them. He knew how to separate his duty from his feelings.

Dean sits alone in the grass with his head raised towards the sky.

It isn't fair for him to lay so much blame on himself. John knew things that he kept hidden from them. Vital information that could have influenced them in a way that let them make the right decisions, even if it hurt. Despite how much it hurt. He wasn't the best man, but there's not much that Dean wouldn't give to be able to ask him for advice right about now.

If there is blame to spread, then John gets a fair share of it, too. And Sam, Cas, Lucifer, Zachariah, Michael, Jake for stabbing Sam, Lilith, Ruby, _God…_

And Dean.

Without Sam around, he didn't fall into trains of thought that held nothing good at their end. But Sam's back now, and he finds himself pondering the unchangeable more than is considered healthy. He's trying to trace the lines back to the start and find where they got tangled up along the way. He's trying to untie the knots of hatred and diverted blame he's carried around for years.

He picks himself up from the ground and stretches his arms overhead, arching his back.

He's done running. He has things that need to be taken care of. Things that running from won't help.

Find and kill Roanoke.

Figure out which angel healed Sam and what they want.

Repair Sam's broken body as much as possible.

And find a way to rebuild all the bridges that he torched with his own hand during the Apocalypse.

* * *

No one greets him when he walks in the door, but he knows that Sam is awake in the room they share. It's an age-old instinct that tells him this, one that Dean thought (hoped) died long ago, but it flares back up like the instinct wants him to be aware of Sam's current condition, whatever that may be.

He stops outside that room and stares at the door riddled with signs of age marring its wooden surface. For every moment he's near Sam, he has an opportunity to redeem himself in being the son that John wanted him to be. In each of those moments, he has a chance to repair the relationship they used to have: brothers against the world.

And he lets those moments slip between his fingers like grains of sand. Every time.

He can blame his reasoning on any number of things, but the true reason is his own unwillingness to let Sam back into his life and pretend they're okay.

They're not okay. Cas and Chuck can believe otherwise all they like, but nothing is okay.

They can't expect Dean to go back to his old self. He's not sure that his old self is alive somewhere within.

Sam doomed the world with good intentions for Dean, and Dean helped damn the world himself. Maybe it's time for him to make peace with the past and move forwards. It might not lead to the same place, but it'll lead to somewhere better than where he is. Where he has a void of negativity eating at his mind and soul at every chance it gets.

But not tonight. He'll face Sam when he has a clear head, not when he has a half-dozen broken thoughts tumbling over each other for attention.

Besides, everything seems clearer in the morning.

He moves past the door and through the house with the silent stealth that every hunter learns to acquire if they want to stay alive.

He doesn't see Cas, but Cas has been more unpredictable after the Apocalypse than before. He's not worried about it. Cas can take care of himself. If Sam were missing, that'd be a different story.

Dean takes a seat at the table and slouches in the beat-up chair, ignoring its creaking protests. He'll start fixing the mess he's let his life become, but not today.

He taps his knuckles on the table, working out tension that doesn't belong and trying to entertain himself in a world that doesn't allow for leisure.

"You and me against the world… I guess," he says. "But we got some work to do to get you back into shape."

* * *

He bites back his boredom. He's tapping his foot, unable to sit still and watch Sam trying to perform small, menial tasks to improve his coordination.

Sam sends him a sideways glance, looking so much like the Sam from before the Apocalypse that Dean's hurt twinges and hurts, even with the severe burn scars covering so much of Sam's face.

"It's not you," Dean says. "I know you think it's you, but it's not. I've never been good at sitting around like this, you know that. I'm a man of action."

"Yeah." It takes Sam a minute, but Dean is surprised to receive a verbal response from him, as shaky as it may be.

"Hey, words," Dean says. "That's good. That's… You're, uh, you're doing good."

Sam turns his head away from Dean.

"Hey, don't do that. I'm trying. I am," Dean says. "I'm trying to meet you halfway, but you know I'm no good at this kind of stuff. It's always been your thing to do the talking."

Dean raises his arm a little bit, hesitates, then places a hand on Sam's shoulder as softly as he can. It's the kind of gentle touch that he lost somewhere along the way in the last few years. A gentle touch that he used for only one person, and became purposeless when that person was gone.

He notices the way that Sam wants to pull away and lean into his touch at the same time.

_Teenage Sam is a menace. A moody, irrational menace, and Dean doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to handle him anymore._

" _It's fine," Sam says, the bite in his tone no longer an oddity._

_Dean tries to keep an ice pack firmly on Sam's head, ignoring his batting arms and the insistence that his help is both unneeded and unwanted._

" _Yeah, having a nice big gash in your head is fine," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Now shut up and let me help."_

_Sam pushes back at Dean's arms again. "I'm not a child."_

" _I never said you were."_

_Dean doesn't take the bait. He doesn't try to argue with Sam anymore. Not today. Their hunt went to shit, and all the adrenaline from taking out the werewolf and rushing a bloody Sam to the car with their father barking at him has faded away._

_Dean hands Sam the ice pack. "But you can do it yourself if you don't want help. If you feel like you have something to prove."_

_Sam takes it and applies the feeble amount of pressure his wounded body is capable of to his head._

_Dean sits and watches Sam until his strength fades and his eyes barely stay open for more than a few seconds. Then, he retakes his position and holds the ice pack himself._

_Sam doesn't fight him this time. Instead, Sam even leans into the touch, just enough that he'd be able to deny it if Dean brought it up (which he won't, of course). Moments like this are the reason that Dean puts up with Sam's newly volatile behavior. Moments that remind him that his act is just that. An act._

_He still is and always will be Sammy on the inside._

"I am _trying_. You know that, right?" Dean asks.

"Yeah."

"It's just that I'm having a hard time being the person you need me to be. Every time I try it feels like I'm an impostor. Like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not anymore. Someone who died years ago. Then, there are times where it feels like the past years never happened. And something happens and takes me out of that bubble."

Sam looks back at him again.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry about all of that. I've been an ass to you, and half the time—at least—it was on purpose. I'm not saying that I can forget it all, or forgive it all, but part of the problem is me. Hell, most of the problem is me. This can't be fixed overnight, but I'm going to try to be better. One step at a time, okay? One step at a time towards repairing the mess we made."

Sam smiles, a little bit. As much as he can. "One step," he says, softly.

* * *

He feels like an intruder in the room, watching while Cas takes the lead. But Dean knows he's useless in this case.

"I need you to concentrate, Sam," Cas says. "Close your eyes and concentrate on Roanoke. Anything in your memory related to Roanoke, no matter how trivial you might believe it to be. We need all the information we can get."

Sam glances at Dean, then back at Cas before he closes his eyes.

"Relax as much as you can, and try to resist the urge to push my presence from your mind. It will be much quicker and easier for both of us that way."

Cas hovers his hands over Sam's head for a moment before he touches either side of Sam's head at the temples. His hands glow a light blue, almost bordering white, and Cas, too, closes his eyes.

Dean stands off to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Sam needs moral support, he tells himself, but he doesn't know how true that belief is. Sam is more receptive to his presence, no longer seeming as skittish and uncertain, but Dean can't understand where they stand. He never could figure out things like that, not in the way Sam could.

In Dean's world (or the old Dean), you were good or you weren't. Things were good, or they weren't. There wasn't this mess of grey area, and now there is.

He watches pain lines form on the unburnt side of Sam's face, but Sam doesn't make any sounds of protest. So, Dean stays quiet. There's no reason for him to intervene, and the information that Cas is trying to get will benefit the entire world.

The problem is that Dean has a record of damning the world for his own selfishness, and Sam is no different.

But they both need to learn to set aside their selfishness and help heal the mess they've thrown the world into, so Dean watches Sam quietly, ignoring the pain on his face. Ignoring how long it takes Cas to sift through what—for all Dean knows—could be mountains of memories involving Roanoke and a Lucifer-possessed Sam.

He lets himself get lost in his thoughts to pass the time, and finds himself wondering if John knew more about Roanoke than he let on, as seemed the case for every topic in the supernatural world. He had mentioned his thoughts of Roanoke being a demon or demonic in his journal, where had he gotten the idea in the first place? Was there an event that tipped him off to it?

He's pulled out of his thoughts by the sudden steps back from Cas and the simultaneous sharp gasp from Sam.

"That's it," Cas says. "Basilica of Saint Mary. Roanoke is hiding out there. He's made it into a twisted lair for himself."

"You're sure?" Dean asks.

"As sure as I can be."

"Minneapolis is pretty far," Dean says. "Especially when transportation isn't exactly as easy as it used to be."

"Were I stronger, I could fly there."

"No," Dean says. "That would attract too much attention anyway. And Sam isn't ready for this. Not yet. I don't know how long it will take for him to be ready, and I don't know that he should go at all."

"I'm going," Sam croaks from his bed. "Going."

"Sam, have you seen the shape you're in?" Dean asks. "Because it's not good and you can barely make it outside on your own."

"If we can figure out which angel healed him after being stabbed with an archangel blade, we may be able to pray for their help to heal him again," Cas says.

"You think they would?"

"I think it's worth trying. We don't have that many options to expedite his healing, and we don't know what his limits will be in regards to healing."

"Great. We have to convince an angel to help us, then hike to Minneapolis, and kill Roanoke, _after_ we figure out a way to kill him."

"Yes," Cas says. "I didn't say it would be easy."

"Yeah, but why does it feel like when we finally get answers, it feels impossible to reach the end of this nightmare?" Dean asks.

Cas doesn't answer him.


End file.
